Wake, isles of the South! Your re­demp­tion is near,
No long­er re­pose in the bor­ders of gloom;
The strength of His chos­en in love shall ap­pear,
And light shall arise on the verge of the tomb,
And light shall arise on the verge of the tomb.

The bil­lows that girt you, the wild waves that roar,
The ze­phyrs that play where the ocean storms cease,
Shall bear the rich freight to your de­so­late shore,
Shall waft the glad tid­ings of pardon and peace,
Shall waft the glad tid­ings of par­don and peace.

On the is­lands that sit in the re­gions of night,
The lands of des­pair, to obli­vi­on a prey,
The morn­ing will op­en with heal­ing and light,
The glad star of Beth­le­hem bright­en to­day,
The glad star of Beth­le­hem bright­en to­day.

The al­tar and id­ol, in dust ov­er­thrown,
The in­cense for­bade that was hal­lowed with blood,
The Priest of Mel­chi­ze­dec, there shall atone,
And the shrines of Ato­oi be sacred to God,
And the shrines of Ato­oi be sac­red to God.

The hea­then will hast­en to wel­come the time,
The day­spring, the pro­phet in vi­sion once saw,
When the beams of Mes­si­ah will ’lu­mine each clime,
And the isles of the ocean will wait for His law,
And the isles of the ocean will wait for His law.