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The Call

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D.C. · Feb 9, 1905

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 82, No. 6.

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The Call

By W. R. PATTERSON

W. R. PATTERSON
“What mean all these open doors in every land, if it is not God's call to action on the part of his people?”
Go forth, ye sons of Emmanuel's legions (None of your number should now be found sleeping), Each wind bears a sigh from the sin-fettered regions Where death, the reaper, his harvest is reaping.
Sad, sad are the sounds that are borne on the wave, Thrice bitter the waiting as time’s onward sweeping,— Waiting, still waiting the light that will save, While death, the reaper, his harvest is reaping.
Sin's banner dark, o'er the nations unfurled, Waves on triumphant from many a land. Man is thy brother, “the field is the world;” Go scatter thy seed with an unsparing hand.
Lift up the cross where the long, weary night Holds minds of millions forever enthralled; Onward, go swiftly and herald the light, And think not of rest till the message is told.
The isles are awaiting the tidings we bear; Love for the dying constrains us to go; Loud as a trumpet love's story declare, Fearlessly invade the lands of the foe.
Turn to the lands where night, like a pall, Hangs dark o'er the pris’ners who sigh to be free; Each beckoning hand, each plaintive call, Is mutely appealing to you and to me.