Bermondsey S.M.

Your harps, ye trembling saints,
Down from the willows take;
Loud to the praise of love divine,
Bid ev'ry string awake.

Though in a foreign land,
We are not far from home;
And nearer to our house above,
We ev'ry moment come.

His grace shall 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 heav'nly flame,
Then is the time to trust our God,
And rest upon His Name.