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538 Isles of the South


Wake, Isles of the South! your redemption is near,
No longer repose in the borders of gloom;
The strength of His chosen in love shall appear,
And light shall arise on the verge of the tomb.

The billows that girt you, the wild waves that roar,
The zephyrs that play where the oceanstorms cease,
Shall bear the rich freight to your desolate shore,
Shall waft the glad tidings of pardon and peace.

On th'islands that sit in the regions of night,
The lands of despair, to oblivion a prey,
The morning will open with healing and light, 
The glad star of Bethlehem brighten today.

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