The Bugle Call of Missions.
O'ER the ocean comes the wailing of the millions in the East,
Burdened with the heathen's dreary, blank despair;
Can we hear these brothers calling,
Can we see their sad tears falling,
And delay the saving message that we bear? Chorus:
Let us take the message to them as they die in heathen lands,
Let us tell them that the Lord is at the gate,
Tell them with the Spirit's power
That we're in the judgment hour,
For their blood will be upon us if we wait. Hark! a nation now is waking from the lethal sleep of years,
Waking her four hundred million hopeless souls.
They must hear the wondrous story
Ere our Saviour comes in glory,
They must know the promise which our heart consoles. Afric's swarthy tribes are waiting for the Gospel's sweet release
From the burden of long centuries of sin;
Sick, with hopeless days of sorrow,
Blind, but dreaming of no morrow,
Knowing not eternity will soon begin. And the Church-and-State dominions, which for centuries have crushed
Like a mountain on the mind and soul of man,
Now are losing fast their power,
And to freedom one brief hour
Now is granted to proclaim the Gospel plan. Here are we among the people who profess the Saviour's name,
And we have a saving message for to-day,
And to every tribe and nation,
Every rank and every station,
We must take it, lest His coming we delay.