RISE, my soul, and stretch thy wings, —

Thy better portion trace;

Rise, from transitory things,

Towards 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.

Rivers to the ocean run,

Nor stay in all their course; Fire ascending seeks the sun,

Both speed them to their source:

So a soul that's born of God

Pants to view his glorious face, Upward tends to his abode,

To rest in his embrace.

ROBERT Seagrave.

AND Jesus said, Somebody hath touched me;

for I perceive that virtue is gone out of me.

And as many as touched were made

perfectly whole.

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