My soul within grows sick and faint
Without thy vital air;
Thou aidst its upper, higher flight
The richer joys to share.
Satan assumes thy angel robes
At times to allure astray,
Defiles their snowy purity
With stains of earth's vile clay.
But thy true spirit is to aid
The heart to nobler deeds,
Cheering its failing strength until
It finally succeeds.
Thus thy mission ever is
To uphold, to elevate,
To assist the earth-bound, struggling soul
To attain the higher state.
Where thy full swelling strains shall rise
In sweetest melody,
Filling heaven's vaulted arch above
With throbbing harmony.
