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John.14.2
Versi 1
1
Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, thy better portion trace;
Rise from transitory things, toward Heaven, thy native place:
Sun and moon and stars decay, time shall soon this earth remove;
Rise, my soul, and haste away to seats prepared above.
2
Rivers to the ocean run, nor stay in all their course;
Fire ascending seeks the sun; both speed them to their source:
So my soul, that‘s born of God, pants to view His glorious face,
Upward tends to His abode, to rest in His embrace.
3
Fly me riches, fly me cares, whilst I that coast explore;
Flattering world, with all thy snares, solicit me no more.
Pilgrims fix not here their home; strangers tarry but a night;
When the last dear morn is come, they‘ll rise to joyful light.
4
Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn, press onward to the prize;
Soon thy Savior will return, triumphant in the skies:
Yet a season, and you know happy entrance will be given
All our sorrows left below, and earth exchanged for Heaven.