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The Book of Praise.
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.
Can we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high, Can we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny ? Salvation ! O salvation !
The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's Name.
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,
In bliss returns to reign.
Bishop Reginald Heber.
LXXXV.
On the mountain's top appearing, Lo ! the sacred herald stands,
Welcome news to Zion bearing, Zion long in hostile lands ; Mourning captive!
God Himself will loose thy bands. |
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