Send Them, O Lord

Lord

Thou hast gone two thou­sand years

Yet they have nev­er heard

Tidings of Thy re­deem­ing love

Or seen Thy ho­ly Word.

Sleeping and still Thy Church has lain

Heedless of the high com­mand—

Go forth to ev­ery tribe and tongue

To ev­ery dist­ant land.

Send them

O Lord

to speak of Thee

Telling of Thy love and grace;

Send them

O Lord

to tell of Thee

To ev­ery tribe and race.

Once o’er this bright and fa­vored land

Lay there the pall of night—

Gloom of a sa­vage hea­then­dom

With foul and bloody rite.

Brave ones arose and came to us

Bringing o’er the tid­ings sweet

Then cru­el men bent low to Thee

And wor­shiped at Thy feet.

So would we do for oth­er lands

Lying in deep­est death

Sinking to meet their aw­ful doom

With ev­ery pass­ing breath.

Hear

Je­sus

hear our fer­vent pray­er

Wake Thy sleep­ing Church to know

Her hour of pri­vi­lege and pow­er

And bid her rise and go.