The rescued souls by lustral waters cleansed,
The wealth of hospitality dispensed.

All this and more if but their walls could speak,
Would tell this day; and we in whose veins flows
The fervent blood of Spain, to us each streak
Of light which doth reveal a picture true
Of gentle friar and lovely vanished times
Is tender as the Angelus' sweet chimes.

Well may each Mission have a holy spell,
And Serra's name become a household word,
What marvels can each yellowed archive tell
Of him and of his martyr-spirit band.
O faithful, dauntless hearts! What brilliant sons
Of that great galaxy of Spain's brave sons!

We love their saintly lives to ponder o'er,
While childhood's fireside tales come back to us,
And memory unfolds her precious store,
The bygone glories of the Mission towns,
The grand old hymns sung at sweet Mary's shrines
The Spanish color rich as luscious wines

Of Mission vineyards, and the festive hours
So full of life yet innocent and good,
When blessings seemed to fall as welcome showers,
The Indian tribes were ruled with Christian love,
And shared the sons and daughters of Castile
Their loved Franciscan Fathers' patient zeal!