Angel of peace, thou hast wan­dered too long;
Spread thy white wings to the sun­shine of love!
Come while our voic­es are blend­ed in song,
Fly to our ark like the storm-beat­en dove—
Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove;
Speed o’er the far-sound­ing bil­lows of song,
Crowned with the ol­ive leaf gar­land of love;
Angel of peace, thou hast wait­ed too long!

Brothers we meet on this al­tar of thine,
Mingling the gifts we have ga­thered for thee;
Sweet with the od­ors of myrtle and pine,
Breeze of the prair­ie and breath of the sea—
Meadow and mount­ain and for­est and sea;
Sweet is the frag­rance of myr­tle and pine,
Sweeter the in­cense we of­fer to thee,
Brothers once more round this al­tar of thine!

Angels of Beth­le­hem, an­swer the strain!
Hark! a new birth-song is fill­ing the sky!
Loud as the storm wind that tum­bles the main,
Bid the full breath of the or­gan re­ply—
Loud let the tem­pest of voic­es re­ply;
Roll its long surge like the earth-shak­ing main!
Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky!
Angels of Beth­le­hem, ec­ho the strain!