THE FREEMAN’S HYMN

In eastern lands a servile race

May bow to thrones and diadems;

And hide in dust the abject face,

Before the glare of gold and gems.

For us, we kneel to One alone;

And freemen worship only Him

Before the brightness of whose throne

The proudest pomps of earth are dim.

And therefore to his children here

This bright and blooming land He gave,

Where famine never blasts the year,

Nor plagues, nor earthquakes glut the grave;

A land where all the gifts unite

That Heaven bestows to make life sweet;

A land of peace, a land of light,

A land where truth and mercy meet.