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    HYMN 17. 7 & 6

    1 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.
    MIM 25.1

    2 What though the spicy breezes
    Blow soft o’er 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.
    MIM 25.2

    3 Shall we, whose souls are lighted
    By wisdom from on high—
    Shall we to man benighted
    The lamp of life deny?—
    Salvation!—oh, salvation!
    The joyful sound proclaim,
    Till earth’s remotest nation
    Has learnt Messiah’s name.
    MIM 25.3

    4 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,
    Returns in bliss to reign.
    MIM 26.1

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