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.

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 his blindness

Bows down to wood and stone.

Shall we, whose souls are lighted

By wisdom from on high,

Shall we to men benighted

The lamp of life deny?

Salvation! O salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,

Till earth’s remotest nation

Shall learn Messiah’s name.