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 ev'ry 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. Shall we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high – Shall we, to men benighted, The lamp of life deny? Salvation! oh, salvation! The joyful sound proclaim, Till earth's remotest nation Has learned Messiah's name.