We are come, all come, with the crowded throng, To join our notes in a plaintive song; For the bond man sighs, and the scalding tear Runs down his cheek while we mingle here.
We are come, all come, with a hallowed vow, At the shrine of slavery never to bow, For the despot's reign o'er hill and plain, Spreads grief and woe in his horrid train.
We are come, all come, a determined band, To rescue the slave from the tyrant's hand; And our prayers shall ascend with our songs to Him Who sits in the midst of the cherubim.
We are come, all come, in the strength of youth, In the light of hope and the power of truth; And we joy to see in our ranks to-day, The honored locks of the good and grey.
We are come, all come, in our holy might, And freedom's foes shall be put to flight; Oh God! with favoring smiles from thee, Our songs shall soon chant the victory.
Blest is the man whose tender heart Feels all another's pain, To whom the supplicating eye Was never raised in vain, Was never raised in vain.
Whose breast expands with generous warmth, A stranger's woe to feel, And bleeds in pity o'er the wound, He wants the power to heal, He wants the power to heal.
He spreads his kind supporting arms, To every child of grief; His secret bounty largely flows, And brings unasked relief.
To gentle offices of love His feet are never slow; He views, through mercy's melting eye, A brother in his foe.
To him protection shall be shown, And mercy from above Descend on those, who thus fulfil The perfect law of love.
Oh charity! thou heavenly grace, All tender, soft, and kind, A friend to all the human race, To all that's good inclined.
The man of charity extends To all his helping hand; His kindred, neighbors, foes, and friends, His pity may command.
The sick, the prisoner, deaf, and blind, And all the sons of grief, In him a benefactor find; He loves to give relief.
'Tis love that makes religion sweet 'Tis love that makes us rise; With willing minds, and ardent feet, To yonder happy skies.
From every stormy wind that blows, From every swelling tide of woes, There is a calm, a sure retreat-- Our refuge is the Mercy-seat.
There is a place where Jesus sheds The oil of gladness on our heads, A place than all beside more sweet-- We seek the blood-bought Mercy-seat.