tr., John Brownlie 8,6,8,6 age moi psucha I Up, up, my soul, on wings of praise, No other service know; In holy strains the love express That fires the heart below. II Burn, burn, my soul, and ever be With holy ardour fired, And, strongly armed with firm resolve, Be evermore inspired. III Pour forth a bloodless offering Of hymns and holy lauds, And weave a garland rich and fair To crown the King of gods. |