Listen, list­en, Eng­lish sis­ters,
Hear an Indian sister’s plea—
Grievous wails, dark ills re­veal­ing,
Depths of human woe un­seal­ing,
Borne across the deep blue sea!
We are dying day by day,
With no bright, no cheer­ing ray:
Nought to lighten up our gloom—
Cruel, cruel, is our doom.

Listen, listen, Chris­tian sis­ters,
Show ye have a Christ-like heart;
Hear us sadly, sadly moan­ing,
’Neath our load of sorrow groan­ing,
Writhing ’neath its bit­ter smart;
With no hope of rest above,
Knowing not a Fa­ther’s love;
Your true sympathy we crave,
You can help us, you can save.

Listen, listen, Chris­tian sis­ters:
Hark! they call, and call again;
Can ye pass them by, un­heed­ing
All their eager, ear­nest plead­ing?
Hear ye not their plaint­ive strain?
Let your tender hearts be moved,
Let your love to Christ be proved:
Not by idle tears alone,
But by noble actions shown.

This is no ro­man­tic sto­ry,
Not an idle, emp­ty tale;
Not a vain, far-fetched ideal:
No, your sisters’ woes are real.
Let their plead­ing tones pre­vail,
As ye prize a Fa­ther’s love,
As ye hope for rest above,
As your sins are all for­giv­en,
As ye have a home in Hea­ven!

Rise, and take the Gos­pel mes­sage,
Bear its tid­ings far away;
Far away to In­dia’s daugh­ters:
Tell them of the liv­ing wa­ters,
Flowing, flow­ing, day by day,
That they too may drink and live.
Freely have ye, free­ly give;
Go, dis­perse the shades of night
With the glo­ri­ous Gos­pel light.

Many jew­els, rare and pre­cious,
If ye sought them, ye should find,
Deep in hea­then dark­ness hid­den.
Ye are by the Mas­ter bid­den,
If ye know that Mas­ter’s mind.
Bidden, did I say? Ah no!
Without bid­ding ye will go
Forth to seek the lone and lost;
Rise and go, what­e’er it cost!

Would ye miss His wel­come greet­ing
When He comes in glo­ry down?
Rather would ye hear Him say­ing—
As be­fore Him ye are laying
Your bright tro­phies for His crown—
I ac­cept your ga­thered spoil,
I have seen your ear­nest toil;
Faithful ones, well done! well done!
Ye shall shine forth as the sun!

Ellen Lakshmi Goreh
From In­dia’s Cor­al Strand, 1883

Led aside! What mean­eth this?
Greatest bless­ing, high­est bliss!
Sweet com­mun­ion with my Lord,
Humbly list­en­ing to His Word.
’Mid the stir of dai­ly life,
’Mid the tu­mult and the strife,
I could not learn what He would teach me:
His gen­tle voice could ne­ver reach me.

Called away from all I love,
Closer drawn to One above:
Human voic­es may be hushed,
Brightest, nob­lest hopes be crushed:
Sometimes lone­ly, some­times sad,
Often joy­ful, oft­en glad:
But Jesus Christ is al­ways near me:
If I but whis­per, He will hear me.

Laid aside from work for Him,
Though hot tears my eyes should dim,
Nothing, no­thing I would be!
If He real­ly need­ed me,
He would not have laid me low:
Well His ten­der love I know.
Now laid aside from plea­sant du­ty,
I gaze and see the Sav­iour’s beau­ty.

Called away to rest awhile
’Neath the sun­shine of His smile:
Such a joy I would not miss!
If I could, I fain would kiss
That kind hand which brought me here!
Can it be a de­sert drear
Where love my path­way is sur­round­ing?
All, all I have! and am abound­ing!

Laid aside—be­hold I lie,
Humbled ’neath Thy search­ing eye.
Painful les­sons I am taught;
Now I know why I was brought
Here aside, my Lord, with Thee:
I was blind, but now I see!
I do not shrink: dear Mas­ter, teach me—
All sound is hushed:
Thy voice can reach me.

Called away to Je­su’s side,
Here con­tent I will abide;
Peace, sweet peace, my spir­it fills:
Every mur­mur­ing thought He stills:
All my tears He wipes away,
Turns the dark­ness into day.
Some work for Him e’en here is giv­en,
A few dear souls to lead to Hea­ven.

Laid aside—yet not for long;
Sigh shall soon give place to song.
Even now I on­ly praise
Him who hum­bled but to raise:
Polished by His skill­ful Hand,
Perfected in Him I stand.
O Jesus, Lord, I kneel be­fore Thee:
With grate­ful heart, lo! I ado­re Thee.

Soon, again, I shall re­joice:
Soon again, with glad­some voice,
I shall spread the Sav­iour’s fame,
Shed the frag­rance of His Name.
Of His won­drous good­ness tell,
Greet the friends I love so well.
More ear­nest yet, more hum­ble, make me
Through all my life do not for­sake me!

Ellen Lakshmi Goreh
From In­dia’s Cor­al Strand, 1883