To be sung to the tune of Jerusalem the Golden
O sunny slumbering island, Temasek thou wast known,
Under the peninsula, by sultans thou wast owned,
A thriving city thou wast, a fair and lively port,
Until the Portuguese came, and razed thee down to naught.
O burnt and weary island, who languishes alone,
Raise thou thine low downcast eyes, to God’s almighty throne.
Dispatch He faithful servants, our island to revive,
For God and royal glory, thy English lords arrived.
Beneath God’s watchful vigils, Sir Stamford Raffles came,
Through English trade and cunning, the land he laid his claim.
Awake O sleepy island, a new life thou art leased!
Singapore is thy name now, and with thee God is pleased.
Called forth they our ancestors, our colony to build,
From China, India, Malaya, our settlement they filled,
On Britain’s wealth and order, our city rest secure,
By grace divine man’s labour, this firmer ground endured.
Who knows our father’s motives, who can their hearts discern?
Why left they native country, to Singapore they turned?
But chose they budding island, nurtured by Britain’s gaze,
Took they this chance to labour, a future crop they raised.
Diverse though tongues which sound here, where many a peoples grew,
One English tongue they heeded, obeyed one British rule.
Firm stood that first foundation, through conquest and through strife!
Though left we now our masters, their tongue and laws survive.
O little island nation, alone thou art once more,
Enjoying heaven’s favour, protected by sure laws.
Good days thus far hast thou seen, and plenty in thy stores!
The blessings at thy founding, flows this day evermore.
Dare we presume thy blessings, O God thy grace to hope?
Shall history’s oceans drown us, with freedom fail to cope?
Recall we thy first goodness, our night of sleep thou broke!
Sink not we dark despairing, but know by grace we float.
Tear down our prideful boasting, our arrogance subdue,
Our silver we beget not, all glory to thee due,
For once we were but shadows, and frail our gleaming stones,
Remind us of thy mercy, alone our land atone.
Though prophets we possess none, our future be obscure,
Though know we not if we fall, or rise above the moor,
But give we thanks for blessings, thy comforts we received!
And grant that we be worthy, and righteousness conceive.