1 Wake Isles of the south! Your redemption draws near,
No longer repose in the borders of gloom,
The strength of the chosen in love will appear,
And light shall arise in the verge of the tomb.

2 The billows that girt you, the wild waves that roar,
The Zephyrs that play when the ocean storms cease,
Shall waft the rich freight to your desolate shore,
Shall waft the glad tidings of pardon and peace.

3 The altar and idol, in dust overthrown;
The incense forbade that was hallowed with blood;
The Priest of Melchisedec there shall atone,
And the shines of Atooi be sacred to God.