Over the ocean wave, far, far away,
There the poor heathen live, waiting for day;
Groping in ignorance, dark as the night,
No blessèd Bible to give them the light.
Pity them, pity them, Christians at home,
Haste with the bread of life, hasten and come.
Here in this happy land we have the light
Shining from God’s own Word, free, pure and bright;
Shall we not send to them Bibles to read,
Teachers, and preachers, and all that they need?
Then, while the mission ships glad tidings bring,
List! as that heathen band joyfully sing,
Over the ocean wave, oh, see them come,
Bringing the bread of life, guiding us home.