On Persia's hills the Sophi grope;
Dark Burmah greets salvation's ray;
Even jealous China's door of hope
Unbars, to give the Gospel way.

Old Ocean, with his isles, awakes,
Cold Greenland feels unwonted flame,
And humble Afric wondering takes
On her sad lips a Saviour's name.

Their steps the forest-children stay,
Bound to oblivion's voiceless shore,
And lift their red brows to the day,
Which from the opening skies doth pour.

Then aid with prayer that holy light

Which from eternal death can save,

And bid Christ's heralds speed their flight,
Ere millions find a hopeless grave.