Prayer of the Christian

With thy pure dews and rains,
Wash out, O God, the stains,
From Afric's shore;
And, while her palm trees bud,
Let not her children's blood,
With her broad Niger's flood,
Be mingled more!
Quench, righteous God, the thirst,
That Congo's sons hath cursed—
The thirst for gold!
Shall not thy thunders speak,
Where Mammon's altars reek,
Where maids and matrons shriek,
Bound, bleeding, sold?
Hear'st thou, O God, those chains,
Clanking on Freedom's plains,
By Christians wrought?
Them, who those chains have worn,
Christians from home have torn,
Christians have hither borne,
Christians have bought!
Cast down, great God, the fanes
That, to unhallowed gains,
Round us have risen—
Temples, whose priesthood pore
Moses and Jesus o'er,
Then bolt the black man's door,
The poor man's prison!
Wilt thou not, Lord, at last,
From thine own image, cast
Away all cords,
But that of love, which brings
Man, from his wanderings,
Back to the King of kings,
The Lord of lords!