We mix from ma­ny lands,
We march for ve­ry far;
In hearts and lips and hands
Our staffs and wea­pons are;
The light we walk in darkens
The sun and moon and star.

It doth not flame and wane
With years and spheres that roll,
Storm cannot shake nor stain
The strength that makes it whole,
The fire that molds and moves it
Is of the so­ve­reign Soul.

From edge of harsh de­ri­sion,
From dis­cord and de­feat,
From doubt and lame di­vi­sion,
We pluck the fruit and eat;
The mouth does find it bit­ter,
The spi­rit finds it sweet.

O na­tions un­di­vid­ed,
O sin­gle peo­ple and free,
Derided dream­ers we,
We mad blind men that see,
We bear you wit­ness ere
Ye come that ye shall be.

Ye sit­ting midst the tombs,
Ye stand­ing round the gate,
Whom fire-mouthed war con­sumes,
Or cold-lipped peace bids wait,
All tombs and bars shall open,
Each se­pul­cher, grave, and grate.

O sor­row­ing hearts of slaves,
We heard you beat from far!
We bring the Light that saves,
We bring the Morn­ing Star;
The gifts of free­dom we bring,
From whence all bless­ings are.

Rise, ere the dawn be ris­en;
Come, all ye souls, be fed;
From prison, field and street,
Come, for the feast is spread;
Live, for the Truth is liv­ing;
Wake, for the night is dead.