For His steep hill is high!

Then striving gain the top and triumph ever!

When with glory there thy brows are crownéd,

New joys so shall abound in thee,

Such sights thy soul shall see,

That worldly thoughts shall by their beams be drownéd.

Farewell, World, thou mass of mere confusion!

False light, with many shadows dimm'd!

Old witch, with new foils trimm'd!

Thou deadly sleep of soul, and charm'd illusion!

I the King will seek, of kings adoréd;

Spring of light; tree of grace and bliss,

Whose fruit so sovereign is

That all who taste it are from death restoréd.