Under Syrian Skies


Born under Syrian skies,
Beneath hotter suns than ours;
The children grew and bloomed,
Like little tropic flowers.

When they first saw the light,
It was in a heathen land.
Not Greenland’s icy mountains,
Nor India’s coral strand.

In vain with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strewn;
The heathen in his kindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.

But some mysterious country,
Where men are nearly black.
And where of true religion,
There is a painful lack.

Great, wide, wonderful sky,
With the grass upon your breast;
With the wonderful clouds round you curled,
Oh sky! You are beautifully drest!

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