html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }HEN from the distant heathen land
The Lord led Zion home,
'Twas to her sons like some fair dream
Of blessings yet to come.
Oh, then our lips with triumph raised
To Heaven the grateful strain,
While every thankful voice prolonged
The joyful sound again.
And when our baffled, vanquished foes,
Beheld His conquering sword,
Upon His work they gazed with awe,
And cried, "It is the Lord!"
Yea, 'tis the Lord! His mighty arm
Great things for us hath done,
And for all these our blessings here,
We praise His Name alone.
And now return once more, O Lord,
And like the sweeping wave
That rolls along the southern plains,
Stretch forth thine arm and save.
Then, though we sadly sow in tears
Along this weary way,
Well reap the fruits of purest joy,
In brighter worlds of day.
For He who bears the precious seed,
Though now forlorn he roam,
Will come again with joyful steps,
And bring his harvest home.
E.