Drawing nearer to Heaven.

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.