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 on Ceylon's isle;

Though every 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.

Can we, whose souls are lighted

With wisdom from on high;

Can we to men benighted

The lamp of life deny?

Salvation! O salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,

Till each remotest nation

Has 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 nature,

The Lamb for sinners slain,

Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign.