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.