Missionary Hymn

Verse 1:
From Greenland’s icy mountains,
From India’s coral strand,
Where Afric’s sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand,
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error’s chain.

Verse 2:
What tho’ the spicy breezes
Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle,
Tho’ ev’ry prospect pleases
And only man is vile?
In vain, with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strown:
The heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.

Verse 3:
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
By wisdom from on high,
Shall we to men benighted
The light of life deny?
Salvation! oh, salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till earth’s remotest nation
Has learn’d Messiah’s name.

Verse 4:
Waft, waft, ye winds, His story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,
Its spreads from pole to pole;
Till o’er our ransom’d nature,
The Lamb, for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.

R. Heber/Lowell Mason


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