Someone must go to the far off lands
Where the temple shrine of the idol stands,
Where the heart bows down to its gods of gold,
And the soul to blindness and death is sold.
Who will run with the tidings and bear them away,
To the soul in its night as it gropes for the day?
Who will say when the whisper comes over the sea,
Here, Lord, am I—send me, send me?
Someone must weep for the soul that sighs,
In its pain and woe under heathen skies;
In the far off land where it bows unblest,
With no hope to cheer, with no ark of rest.
O’er earth’s wide realm send the tidings forth,
Let the news be told of a Savior’s birth;
Let the isles rejoice and on every shore,
Shout the glad new song, life forevermore.