Who Will Run with the Tidings?

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.