Dear Reader,

This verse is offered not in anger, but in the fear of the Lord and in love for the nation that once confessed His name. It is written in the manner of those who knew that a people’s life is measured by whether they will honor the Son who was given for them.

The line that opens and closes these stanzas was first a hymn of gratitude. Here it is set as a question and a warning: the grace of God has been shed upon this land through Jesus Christ. If that grace is refused, and the name of Christ is cast aside, what remains when the light is withdrawn?

Read it, if you will, as one might read an inscription on a public stone—plain in its charge, unadorned in its hope, and leaving the final word to the One who still calls through His Son.

—The Poet

Psalm 33:12

Blessed is the nation whose God is the LORD; and the people whom he hath chosen for his own inheritance.

Acts 4:12

Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee,

From purple mountains’ majesty

To shining, boundless sea.

He lit the lamp of liberty

And filled the fertile plain;

He guided weary pilgrims’ feet

Through storm and wilderness pain.

The founders bowed beneath His Name

And sought His counsel first;

They framed their laws in fear of Him

Who judges all the just.

From village steeple, prairie church,

His Word was daily read;

The children learned of Providence

And rose with hope and dread.

Yet now the altars stand forsaken,

The Word is cast aside;

The heart that once sought heaven’s mercy

Turns inward, swells with pride.

The schools that once taught sacred truth

Now mock the ancient faith;

The courts that once appealed to God

Have put His name to death.

Why turn thy back upon the Giver

Who formed thee from the dust,

Who blessed thy fields with golden harvest

And kept thy cities just?

The grace once shed like morning dew

Is spurned for lesser lights;

The Name that steeled thy founders’ hands

Is silenced in the nights.

What harvest grows when roots are severed?

What freedom thrives when bound

To nothing higher than itself?

What mercy can be found?

The fruit is bitter on the vine,

The walls begin to crack;

The peace once given freely fades

And chaos answers back.

Return, O land of spacious skies,

Before the twilight falls;

For He who shed His grace on thee

Still waits, and still He calls.

Lift up the fallen altars high,

Reclaim the open Book;

Remember Him who gave thee breath

And tremble at His look.

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee—

Return, or watch the grace withdraw

And darkness claim the free.

**To God be the glory always and only.