Swift messengers before Thy face,
The heralds of Thy wondrous grace,
Where Thou Thyself wilt come.
Men in whose ears His sweet words ring;
Send such Thy lost ones home to bring;
Send them where Thou wilt come.
The bruised and broken hearts to win;
In every place to bring them in,
Where Thou Thyself wilt come.
The sword of Thine own deathless word;
And make them conquerors, conquering Lord,
Where Thou Thyself wilt come.
From this broad land a mighty host,
Their war-cry, We will seek the lost,
Where Thou, O Christ, wilt come!