AIR—My faith looks up to thee.
Ye spirits of the free,
Can ye forever see
Your brother man
A yoked and scourged slave,
Chains dragging to his grave,
And raise no hand to save?
Say if you can.
In pride and pomp to roll,
Shall tyrants from the soul
God’s image tear,
And call the wreck their own,—
While, from the eternal throne,
They shut the stifled groan
And bitter prayer?
Shall he a slave be bound,
Whom God hath doubly crowned
Creation’s lord?
Shall men of Christian name,
Without a blush of shame,
Profess their tyrant claim
From God’s own word?
No! at the battle cry,
A host prepared to die,
Shall arm for fight—
But not with martial steel,
Grasped with a murderous zeal;
No arms their foes shall feel,
But love and light.
Firm on Jehovah’s laws,
Strong in their righteous cause,
Their march to save.
And vain the tyrant’s mail,
Against their battle-hail,
Till cease the woe and wail
Of tortured slave.