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eir land from error's chain.
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile!
In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strewn;
The heathen in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.
Can we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high -
Can we, to men benighted,
The Lamp of Life deny?
Salvation! Oh, salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learned Messiah's name.
Waft, waft ye winds, His story;
And you, ye waters roll,
Till like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole,
Till o'er our ransomed nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.
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