Your Harps, Ye Trembling Saints

Your harps

ye trem­bling saints

Down from the wil­lows take;

Loud to the praise of love di­vine

Bid ev­ery string awake.

Though in a for­eign land

We are not far from home

And near­er to our house ab­ove

We ev­ery mo­ment come.

His grace will to the end

Stronger and bright­er shine;

Nor pre­sent things nor things to come

Shall quench the spark di­vine.

When we in dark­ness walk

Nor feel the heav­en­ly flame

Then is the time to trust our God

And rest up­on His name.

Soon shall our doubts and fears

Subside at His con­trol;

His lov­ing­kind­ness shall break through

The mid­night of the soul.

Blest is the man

O Lord!

That stays him­self on Thee;

Who wait for Thy sal­va­tion

Lord!

Shall thy sal­va­tion see.