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 souls from error’s chain.

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft over 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 learnt the Saviour’s name.