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’an palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error’s chain.

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle –
Though 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.

Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high –
Shall we, to men benighted,
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! oh, salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till earth’s remotest nation
Has learned Messiah’s name.

Recordings none