Your harps, ye trembling saints
1 Your harps, ye trembling saints,
Down from the willows take;
Loud to the praise of love Divine
Bid every string awake.
2 Though in a foreign land,
We are not far from home;
And nearer to our house above
We every moment come.
3 His grace will to the end
Stronger and brighter shine;
Nor present things, nor things to come,
Shall quench the spark Divine.
4 When we in darkness walk,
Nor feel the heavenly flame,
Then is the time to trust our God,
And rest upon His Name.
5 Soon shall our doubts and fears
Subside at His control:
His loving-kindness shall break through
The midnight of the soul.
6 Wait till the shadows flee; Wait thy appointed hour, Wait till the Bridegroom of thy soul, Reveals His love with power.
7 Blest is the man, O God,
That stays himself on Thee:
Who wait for Thy salvation, Lord,
Shall Thy salvation see.