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The tyrant's yoke from off her neck,
His fetters from her soul,
The mighty hand of Grod shall break,
And spurn the base control.
Redeemed from dust and freed from chains,
Her sons snail lift their eyes;
From cloud-capt hills and verdant plains
Shall shouts of triumph rise.
Upon her dark, despairing brow,
Shall play a smile of peace;
For God shall bend unto her wo,
And bid her sorrows cease.
'Neath sheltering vines and stately palms
Shall laughing children play,
And aged sires with joyous psalms
Shall gladden every day.
Secure by night, and blest by day.
Shall pass her happy hours;
Nor human tigers hunt for prey
Within her peaceful bowers.
Then, Ethiopia! stretch, oh! stretch
Thy bleeding hands abroad;
Thy cry of agony shall reach
And find redress from God.
