AN INVOCATION.
Rise up, Oh! soul from slumber,
Rise up and go thy way,
There are crosses without number,
That thou must bear to day.
There are pilgrims by the wayside,
Who heavy burdens bear,
Of grief and bitter longing,
Of pain and worldly care.
Rise up and go thy way,
There are crosses without number,
That thou must bear to day.
There are pilgrims by the wayside,
Who heavy burdens bear,
Of grief and bitter longing,
Of pain and worldly care.
Oh soul! thou may'st not linger,
Within the cool green shade,
While all along the highway,
Resounds the pilgrim's tread.
The iron bands of tyrrany,
Clasp round and sore oppress,
Thy brethren, and injustice rules,
God's courts of holiness.
Within the cool green shade,
While all along the highway,
Resounds the pilgrim's tread.
The iron bands of tyrrany,
Clasp round and sore oppress,
Thy brethren, and injustice rules,
God's courts of holiness.
There are little waifs astray,
In the city's crowded streets,
That thy hand may pluck away,
Like brands from burning heat,
In the city's crowded streets,
That thy hand may pluck away,
Like brands from burning heat,
