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2 What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
1 Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile: I In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown; The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.
3 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 learned Messiah's name.
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,
In bliss returns to reign.
Bishop Reginald Heber, 1S19 |
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