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.

2 What though the spicy breezes

Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle—

Though every prospect pleases,

And only man is vile;

In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strewn;

The heathen, in their blindness,

Bow down to wood and stone.

3 Shall we whose souls are lighted

By wisdom from on high—

Shall we, to man benighted,

The lamp of life deny?

Salvation! O salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,

Till earth’s remotest nation

Has learned Messiah’s name.

4 Waft—waft, you winds, his story,

And you, you waters, roll,

Till, like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole;

Till, o’er our ransomed nature,

The Lamb for sinners slain,

Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign.