Classic Poem

Wake , wake, a joyous measure,
For blessings rich and free,
The Gospel—priceless treasure,
Has come, oh God, from Thee;
Golconda's gems, though shining,
Are not like means of grace,
Where hope and fear combining,
Would bid us seek thy face.

But look far off in sadness,
The Pagan bows in dust,
He wakes no lay of gladness,
No God has he to trust;
His dusky children linger,
Beneath the spreading Palm,
But who with pointing finger,
Directs them to the Lamb?

Rouse, Christians, rouse to duty,
The living God proclaim,
Till, clothed in robes of beauty,
The world repeats his name;
Disclose the healing fountain,
Salvation's blessed prize,
Till floats o'er vale and mountain,
The standard of the skies.