Missionary Hymn for S.P.G

Souls in heathen darkness lying,
Where no light has broken through,
Souls that Jesus bought by dying,
Whom His soul in travail knew.
Thousand voices
Call us o'er the waters blue.

Christians, Christians, none has taught them
Of His love so deep and dear,
Of the precious price that bought them,
Nail, and thorn, and cruel spear.
Ye who know Him,
Guide them from their darkness drear.

Still Mohammed's sons adoring
Call untired their prophet's name,
Morn and eve for aid imploring,
Tell the greater chief who came;
The true Prophet
Winning glory out of shame.

Still dark men by Ganges waters,
Sighing for a friend divine,
Count their fabled gods' avatars —
Show the Son of David's line;
God Incarnate!
All their woes and wants are Thine.

Still the Jew his word prophetic
Bends to meet an earthly reign,
Scorns Christ's history pathetic —
Read him right his ancient strain;
Christ can give him
Israel's glories back again.

Still old Asia's sages yearning,
Grope for truth with darken'd eye
By the lamp within them burning
While the sun is in the sky,
Nothing dreaming
Of the glorious Light on high.

Still the earth hath cruel places,
Wrath, and hate, and vengeance grim,
Still God looks on human faces
Heavenward turn'd, but not to Him;
Slaves in bondage
Worse than of the fetter'd limb.

Eastward for the bright sun breaking,
Treads the dark clouds into light,
East and west the lands are waking,
Other feet are on the height,
More beautiful,
Bearing words of love and might.

Haste, O haste and spread the tidings,
Let no shore be left untrod,
No lost brother's bitter chidings
Haunt us from the further sod;
Tell the heathen
All the precious truths of God.
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