From Greenland's icy mountains,From India's coral strand,Where Afric's sunny fountainsRoll down their golden sand,From many an ancient river,From many a palmy plain,They call us to deliverTheir land from error's chain.
What though the spicy breezesBlow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;Though every prospect pleases,And only man is vile?In vain with lavish kindnessThe gifts of God are strown;The heathen in his blindnessBows down to wood and stone.
Shall we, whose souls are lightedWith wisdom from on high,Shall we to men benightedThe lamp of life deny?Salvation! O salvation!The joyful sound proclaim,Till earth's remotest nationHas learned Messiah's name.
Waft, waft, ye winds, His story,And you, ye waters, roll,Till, like a sea of glory,It spreads from pole to pole:Till o'er our ransomed natureThe Lamb for sinners slain,Redeemer, King, Creator,In bliss returns to reign.
