The Missionaries by Bishop Robert McIntyre

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jan 25, 1912

The Missionaries

By Bishop Robert McIntyre

Out from the doomed Jerusalem, in days of long ago, By two and two they sallied forth to lands of sun or snow; And each slow century since then has seen this loyal clan Break out to bear the blessed news to all the sons of man.

Beside the slim, tall temples, where the tawny rivers run, They ate the corn from out their scrips where Karnak’s hieroglyphs Through Memphis’ lintel’d gates they passed, and sang a holy psalm, Where carven gods looked down on them in immemorial calm.

Their bare feet pressed the beaten shore beneath dark Nubia’s cliffs; They ate the corn from out their scrips where Karnak’s hieroglyphs Tell how the world’s gray mother, dead, beside old Nilus lies; And held the lifted cross before Assyria’s glazing eyes.

Down to imperial Rome they drew, o’er the Campagna’s turf; Nor halted where the rocky shore flung back the roaring surf, But spread the sails, and, unafraid, across the seething main Steered where the wild Atlantic lashed the pillared front of Spain.

In single file, on lonely paths, they walked through forests dim, And stirred the Saxon silence with their solemn matin hymn; The bloom of Irish primroses fell on their wandering feet, And heather on the Scottish hills made all their garments sweet.

Beside the stormy Northern capes they taught the vikings bold, And in the English meadows green the wondrous tale they told; Amid the cairns, among the oaks, they reared the holy crypt, And dared to tell of dying love, where druid altars dripped.

And still o’er all the earth they fare, where’er a soul has need; My heart leaps up and calls to them: O brothers mine! Godspeed What time within the jungle deep ye watch the daylight die, Or on some lonely Indian steep see dawn flush all the sky.

Far is the cry from here to there, yet harken when we say: Ye are the brethren of the Book; in Khartum or Cathay, ’Tis ye who make the record good; ’tis ye, O royal souls, Who justify the chronicles, writ in the ancient scrolls.

O missionaries of the blood! Ambassadors of God! Our souls flame in us when we see where ye have fearless trod At break of day; your dauntless faith our slackened valor shames, And every eve our joyful prayers are jeweled with your names.

— Bishop Robert McIntyre, in the Christian Advocate.