We mix from ma­ny lands,
We march for ve­ry far;
In hearts and lips and hands
Our staffs and wea­pons are;
The light we walk in dark­ens
The sun and moon and star.

It doth not flame and wane
With years and spheres that roll,
Storm can­not shake nor stain
The strength that makes it whole,
The fire that molds and moves it
Is of the so­ver­eign Soul.

From edge of harsh de­ri­sion,
From dis­cord and de­feat,
From doubt and lame di­vi­sion,
We pluck the fruit and eat;
The mouth does find it bit­ter,
The spir­it finds it sweet.

O na­tions un­di­vid­ed,
O sin­gle peo­ple and free,
Derided dream­ers we,
We mad blind men that see,
We bear you wit­ness ere
Ye come that ye shall be.

Ye sit­ting midst the tombs,
Ye stand­ing round the gate,
Whom fire-mouthed war con­sumes,
Or cold-lipped peace bids wait,
All tombs and bars shall open,
Each se­pul­cher, grave, and grate.

O sor­row­ing hearts of slaves,
We heard you beat from far!
We bring the Light that saves,
We bring the Morn­ing Star;
The gifts of free­dom we bring,
From whence all bless­ings are.

Rise, ere the dawn be ris­en;
Come, all ye souls, be fed;
From prison, field and street,
Come, for the feast is spread;
Live, for the Truth is liv­ing;
Wake, for the night is dead.