Classic Poem

Children of Freedom's land,
Who know the Saviour's word,
To strains of grateful harmony,
Wake every joyful chord!

Not where the heathen cast
Their infants to the wave;
Not where they know not of the name
Of Him who came to save;

Not in some distant isle
Of the unpeopled sea,—
But amid temples, we were born,
And where the holy be.

“Suffer the babes to come,”
Of such, the Saviour said,
They, of “my kingdom,” shall be heirs;
For them, the Saviour bled

Hither, with sacred power,
The words of love are sent,
The cords of blessed truth to bind,
While those of sin are rent.

Children of Freedom's land,
Who know the Saviour's word,
To strains of grateful harmony
Wake every joyful chord!