Neh Nyue-anya, Ah Bati, oh, Neh Nyue-anya, 

ah Bati, oh, Liberia, land of our fathers’ fathers, 

the freedom seeker, where the wayfarer came home 

to the mountains of Lofa, Nimba, trampling 

the tropical forest through Bong, coming down 

the hills of Grand Gedeh, our fathers planted feet, 

some, to the coasts of Cape Mount, Cape Palmas, 

Sinoe, Bassa, Dukor, traveling by day and by night.  

From the mountains to the coast, our fathers came 

centuries ago, and planted our umbilical cords 

deep in the soil of this place, oh, my people,

this is our home, one people, one Liberia, all of us, 

where our fathers died to give us this land. 

Though we sing of you, we also wail for you.

In the hope of a day when we will truly know 

that we are one of the same people, same blood,

same root, no matter where we came from. 

Through the centuries we have sought to remake you, 

to envision the people we truly are, to carve out 

of the depths of our pain and longing, something 

we can all call our home forever, oh, land of liberty, 

oh, home of the longing traveler, oh, home 

of our mothers’ mothers, this is where we belong.

Liberia of the brave, resilient, and happy-hearted, 

peace-loving people, rise, to the new day, my people, 

the world is waiting for us. You who have shed 

your blood in search of freedom, you whose history 

we have lived in our daydreaming and our hope 

of a better world, oh, mother of mothers, 

land of endless ocean waves, stand. 

In the midst of doubt and injustice, stand. 

In the midst of want and hopelessness, stand. 

In the tumbling waves of chaos, stand,

feed our children, be one,  and stand.

We must lead from the Coast of Harper to Cape Mount, 

from Grand Bassa’s shores to Sanoe’s beachline, 

from the mountain range of Nimba, to Mount Wuteve. 

Oh motherland, home of the tear-bearer, the town crier, 

our children wait along Monrovia’s rocky hills 

amidst the rolling ocean waves. 

For too many decades, our mothers have born 

the burden of children, heavy loads upon their heads, 

sitting at hot market tables so their children can eat. 

Too many decades, our children have meandered 

like the Mesurado River around our cities, tiny 

bodies, meandering between cars, selling wares, 

plantain chips, candies during school hours.

Our children must live the life our mothers died 

to give us. Our children are waiting to walk the paths 

we will carve up for them. You of the loving heart, 

you of the free spirit, oh, Liberia of diverse languages, 

where we speak the one language in our cuisine 

of diverse sauces and stews, our cooking that cannot 

be duplicated anywhere else in Africa.

We are one nation, where some of us arrived home 

from slavery centuries ago, and others, born here, 

or came from afar, but we are one.

Too many of our daughters are waiting in back rooms 

even though the classroom is the only way. 

Wake up, so we can feed them knowledge, oh Liberia, 

of sunshine, land of many rivers, an immaculate coastline, 

the beauty of our soil will forever be ours. 

But our children are waiting in the torrential rains 

so, we can open the door to let them in. 

Liberia, that our sons died for, Liberia, that we sing 

from far off lands, where some of us fled so Liberia

could live? But we come home again and again, 

because this is our home. We must clear the early 

dewdrops along our farm roads, oh, we must rise above 

the fray, oh, my people, and clear the broken pathways.