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Not his to smite with cruel scorn, Nor mock the dying one,That helpful man came from the land Kissed by the ardent sun—
The land within whose sheltering arms The infant Jesus layWhen Herod vainly bared his sword And sought the child to slay.
Amid the calendar of saints We Simon's name may trace,On history's page thro' every age He bears an honored place.
He little knew that cross would change Unto a throne of light;The crown of thorns upon Christ's brow Would be forever bright.
Beneath the shadow of that cross Brave men with outstretched handsHave told the wondrous tale of love In distant heathen lands.
And yet within our favored land, Where Christian churches rise,The dark-browed sons of Africa Are hated and despised.
Can they who speak of Christ as King, And glory in his name,
