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g>ij0rt #t0ri?0 0f tif^ iia^^^ 
 
 Being a Brief Account of the Circumstances 
 
 IN WHICH Some of our Best Hymns 
 
 AND Songs were Written 
 
 Henrt Marttn Kieffer 
 
 \>^ 
 
 'orpfiff^?^^ 
 
 MAY 1 8 1913 
 
 /^.-. 
 
 ^GICAL %^ 
 
 Author of "The Recollections of a Drummer Boy," "College 
 
 Chapel Sermons," "The First Settlers of the Forks 
 
 of the Delaware," "It is to Laugh," "The 
 
 Funny Bone," etc. 
 
 StEINMAN & FOLTZ 
 LANCASTER, PA. 
 
Copyright, 1912 
 By Henry Martyn Kieflfer 
 
To My Wife 
 
 TO WHOSE MOST EFFICIENT AND FAITHFUL AID THE 
 
 PREPARATION OF THIS VOLUME IS DUE, IT 13 
 
 MOST AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
l^xttatt 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The purpose of this little book is to 
 present to its readers some brief account 
 of the origin and authorship of some of 
 our more familiar hymns. It is not the 
 purpose to attempt to cover the whole 
 ground of Christian hymnology, in its 
 simply historical aspect, as that would 
 demand the preparation of a book of 
 very considerable dimensions. It is pro- 
 posed, simply, to select from a very large 
 amount of material which the author 
 has for years past been gathering, a few 
 of the more striking and interesting 
 incidents connected with the composi- 
 tion of some of our best known Songs of 
 Zion. In doing this free use will be made 
 of such works on the subject as either a 
 private or a public library will afford. 
 
6 ^rtfntt 
 
 while some assistance, and that not in- 
 considerable, will be found in certain 
 carefully kept scrap-books of apoplectic 
 dimension and appearance, the joint 
 product of scissors, paste, and patience 
 for many years past. 
 
 It is quite possible, truly, that this 
 little book may traverse some ground 
 already familiar to some of its readers, 
 but it is believed that to the great ma- 
 jority of them the story of the hymns is 
 new, and will prove interesting and pro- 
 fitable. At all events, it will be an 
 advantage to all who have not access 
 to special works on the subject, to have 
 in hand, gathered up in brief compass 
 and available shape, such facts con- 
 nected with the origin of the hymns, as 
 the author, after some years of patient 
 search, has found most interesting and 
 instructive to himself. 
 
 Atlantic City, N. J. 
 
Bl}axt Btams at ttj? %mtia 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Our Hymns — where did they come 
 from? As you take your seat in your 
 pew on the Sunday morning, and open 
 your hymn book to find the hj^mn which 
 the minister has just announced, does it 
 ever occur to you to inquire, as you look 
 at the hymn, "Who wrote this hymn? 
 Why ? And under what circumstances ? ' ' 
 Your hymn book may perhaps of itself 
 tell you the name of the author and the 
 date of its composition — but that is 
 very little information. Let us say, 
 for example, that the hymn which the 
 minister has announced is, 
 
 "Blest be the tie that binds 
 
 Our hearts in Christian love! 
 The fellowship of kindred minds 
 Is like to that above." 
 
8 §>l|ort ^tomfi of % %mnH 
 
 Your hymn book may indeed tell you 
 that this was written by one John Faw- 
 cett, in the year 1772. But these bare 
 facts have very little interest for you. 
 Who was John Fawcett, and why, and 
 under what circumstances did he write 
 this good old hymn? If we could only 
 get at that, perhaps we should find a new 
 interest and see a new meaning in this 
 grand old song of Christian fellowship. 
 If a person has not yet started such in- 
 quiries as these in his own mind in ref- 
 erence to at least some of the hymns we 
 are accustomed to use in the service of 
 the sanctuary, he has not a little yet 
 to learn in connection with the general 
 subject of singing in church. No one 
 can understand a hymn, or at least ap- 
 preciate it aright, or feel the full power 
 of its meaning, unless he knows somewhat 
 of the spirit which actuated its com- 
 poser and the outward circumstances 
 which called it forth. 
 
Bl^att ^toriw of t\}t ^^mm 9 
 
 Such historical knowledge of the hymns 
 adds a new interest to them. It is true 
 here as it is true generally — that our 
 knowledge of the history of a thing is the 
 measure of our interest in it. Whether 
 it concern the earth which we inhabit, 
 the language we use, the laws by which 
 we are governed, or anything whatso- 
 ever with which we have to do, history is 
 in all respects one of the noblest, most 
 refining and instructive branches of study. 
 And everything has had a history. The 
 mountains which rise towering toward 
 the sky, and which seem to have been 
 from everlasting, were not always where 
 they are now. The rivers did not al- 
 ways flow in their present channels 
 toward the sea. The continents were 
 at one time at the bottom of the ocean. 
 Earthquakes, volcanic action, changes 
 of climate, and a thousand other in- 
 fluences have conspired to make the 
 
earth what it is. It has had a history. 
 And it derives a new interest for us the 
 moment we begin to read and study 
 and examine into the manifold changes 
 through which it has passed. Indeed, 
 anything develops a new significance 
 the moment you learn something of its 
 past. The piece of coal which you 
 unthinkingly toss into your stove be- 
 comes a something more when you 
 learn that it is older than the family of 
 man: that it once was a piece of wood 
 and grew in a forest, the like of which 
 is now nowhere to be found, and of 
 which, if it only had a tongue, it could 
 tell a most wonderful story. Now hold 
 it in your hand, and turn it over, and 
 look at it in wonder. So, too, the words 
 which we daily use, have had, each and 
 all of them, a history — often a very 
 beautiful and instructive history; and 
 when one once begins to go to his die- 
 
^Ifort ^tortPH of tl|0 %mttfi 11 
 
 tionary, and studies the origin of words 
 and the changes through which they 
 have passed, language ceases to be the 
 dead thing it formerly was esteemed, 
 and becomes living, interesting, instruc- 
 tive. 
 
 So it is with our hymns. We have 
 been using many of them ever since we 
 could sing; and we have sung them not 
 knowing where they came from, by 
 whom written, when or where or why; 
 not knowing but they may have been 
 dropped down from the skies; not know- 
 ing, even while we sang them, that each 
 has had its lesson of instruction in the 
 very circumstances which gave it birth. 
 We were like our ancestors of an hundred 
 years ago who roamed over the hills of 
 central Pennsylvania never suspecting 
 the vast mineral treasures which had 
 been laid up in store beneath their feet. 
 
 There are probably very few, if any, 
 
of our readers who have not often joined 
 in singing, 
 
 "Come, Thou Fount of every blessing. 
 Tune my heart to sing Thy grace; 
 Streams of mercy, never ceasing, 
 Call for songs of loudest praise. " 
 
 Yet — who wrote it? It was written 
 by a certain Robert Robinson, of Cam- 
 bridge, England. He was born in the 
 year 1735, and was converted under the 
 preaching of Whitefield. He is said to 
 have been a man of unusual mental en- 
 dowment, and shortly after his conver- 
 sion he became a preacher. Unfortun- 
 ately, he was also a man of a restless 
 disposition, unstable in his thinking, 
 always going from one thing to another, 
 and eventually became an infidel. It 
 would seem, from a careful perusal of 
 this hymn, that when he wrote it in the 
 first enthusiasm of his conversion, he 
 
^l|ort ^torteB of tlj^ %mtw 13 
 
 was sensible of the unsettled character 
 of his own mind and heart; for you will 
 notice how, in the last verse, he pleads 
 piteously for the grace of constancy — 
 
 "Oh, to grace how great a debtor 
 
 Daily I'm constrained to be! 
 Let that grace now, like a fetter. 
 
 Bind my wand 'ring heart to Thee! 
 Prone to wander. Lord, I feel it — 
 
 Prone to leave the God I love — 
 Here's my heart — Oh take and seal it. 
 
 Seal it from Thy courts above!" 
 
 In connection with the history of this 
 hymn, it is related that the author of it 
 was one day traveling by coach and had 
 for his fellow passenger a lady, an entire 
 stranger to him. She had lately seen 
 this hymn, and admired it so much that 
 in the course of conversation she asked 
 him whether he had ever seen it, and 
 whether he could tell her who was the 
 author of it? At first he avoided her 
 
14 #if0rt BtttntB of tl|r l^gmuH 
 
 questions, for he was at that very moment 
 an avowed infidel. But as she pressed 
 him for an answer and began to tell him 
 what a blessing and comfort that one 
 hymn had been to her soul, he at length 
 burst into a passionate flood of tears, 
 exclaiming, *' Madam, I am the poor 
 unhappy man who composed that hymn 
 many years ago; and I would give a 
 thousand worlds, if I had them, to enjoy 
 the feeling I then had!" The poor man 
 died hopeless. Alas, that one should 
 preach the gospel and himself be a cast- 
 away! 
 
 ^ Let us take another familiar hymn 
 which, like the above, we often sing at 
 the opening of service, and which is 
 frequently used when ministers and lay- 
 men meet in Conventions, Assemblies, 
 Conferences and Synods — 
 
^I|nrt BtarxsB tit % %mttB 15 
 
 "I love Thy kingdom, Lord, 
 The house of Thine abode; 
 The Church our blest Redeemer saved 
 With His own precious blood. " 
 
 For this most excellent hymn we are 
 indebted to Timothy Dwight, D. D., 
 one of the many celebrated Presidents of 
 Yale College. He was born in Massa- 
 chusetts in 1752. His father was a mer- 
 chant, his mother the third daughter of 
 Jonathan Edwards. He was a bright 
 boy, learned the alphabet at a single 
 lesson, could read the Bible at the age of 
 four years ; was ready for college at eight, 
 entered at thirteen and graduated at 
 seventeen. He at first devoted himself 
 to the study of law, but found his way 
 into the ministry, and was appointed a 
 Chaplain in the Continental army in 
 1777. In 1795 he was elected President 
 of Yale College. It is said of him that 
 he was capable of doing an almost in- 
 
16 ^Ifflrt ^turuB nf tJje %mtta 
 
 credible amount of intellectual work, and 
 that after working and studying all day 
 he would sit up far into the night writing 
 poetry. It was, no doubt, over the mid- 
 night oil, after a long day's work had 
 been done for the Church of Christ, that 
 he took his pen and wrote, as if anew 
 consecrating himself to the service of 
 the Master — 
 
 "I love Thy kingdom, Lord, 
 The house of Thine abode; 
 The Church our blest Redeemer saved 
 With His own precious blood. 
 
 I love Thy Church, Oh God! 
 
 Her walls before Thee stand 
 Dear as the apple of Thine eye. 
 
 And graven on Thy hand. 
 
 For her my tears shall fall, 
 
 For her my prayers ascend, 
 To her my cares and toils be given. 
 
 Till toils and cares shall end." 
 
#I|0rt ^tori^H of % IfgmttH 17 
 
 As we read these burning words of self- 
 consecration to the Redeemer's Church 
 and Kingdom, one can imagine and al- 
 most in fancy see the weary Yale College 
 President at the midnight hour, perhaps, 
 when the day's work was done and all 
 the house was still, bending over his 
 study table which with him, as with 
 many another minister of Christ, had 
 become a veritable altar of the Lord, 
 with an aching head and a tired hand 
 writing these words so familiar to us all. 
 This hymn, which breathes a spirit of 
 such consecration to the Church of 
 Christ, could have been written only by 
 one who had first of all really consecrated 
 himself to God's service and praise, and 
 it never can have its full power save only 
 w^ith those who, like the author of it, 
 have indeed laid themselves on the altar 
 of the Gospel. 
 
 It is worthy of observation that many 
 
18 #l|art Btavxts of t\^t %m«a 
 
 of our most celebrated hymns were com- 
 posed by ministers of the Gospel. And 
 it is also worthy of remark how even they 
 do not seem at all times to have been 
 equally prepared for so difficult a work as 
 hymn-writing, but appear to have been 
 moved by the good spirit of God to an 
 almost irresistible impulse on certain oc- 
 casions of rare inspiration, when their 
 hearts were aflame and their lips aglow 
 with a fire kindled by a live coal from 
 the altar. It has largely been in con- 
 nection with pastoral care or pulpit 
 labor that our noblest songs of Zion first 
 saw the light of day. Hymns, that is to 
 say good hymns, were never, or at least 
 very seldom, written with much fore- 
 thought or conscious premeditation. 
 They were born, rather, out of a full 
 heart and an overmastering inspiration, 
 when the heart was all aglow with heav- 
 enly light and warmth, and when the 
 
g'liort ^toma of t\^t %mttB 19 
 
 intellect and the imagination were raised 
 up, for the time being, to a higher plane 
 than usual. Like the holy men of old, 
 our hymn-writers "Spake as they were 
 moved by the Holy Ghost." 
 
 Here is another hymn which we often 
 sing. It was composed by a minister 
 and was drawn from or was suggested 
 by ministerial experiences — 
 
 "Blest be the tie that binds 
 Our hearts in Christian love; 
 The fellowship of kindred minds 
 Is like to that above. 
 
 When we asunder part 
 
 It gives us inward pain ; 
 But we shall still be joined in heart, 
 
 And hope to meet again. '* 
 
 In the course of the narrative of the 
 circumstances connected with the writ- 
 
20 ^Ijort ^'tnrtJB of t\^ %mttH 
 
 ing of this hymn, it will be observed how 
 pastor and people are far more attached 
 to one another than either is aware of, 
 till they come to part. The relation 
 between pastor and people seems to be 
 so sacredly close and so tenderly affec- 
 tionate, that it cannot be broken with- 
 out great pain. So it was, at least with 
 John Fawcett, the author of the above 
 hymn. It is related that after he had 
 been a few years in the ministry, his 
 family (as is often the case), "increasing 
 far more rapidly than his income," he 
 determined to make a change in his 
 pastoral relations by leaving the con- 
 gregation he had been serving, and 
 settling in a Baptist church in London. 
 Accordingly, much to the regret of his 
 people, he delivered his farewell sermon 
 to them, and shortly thereafter made 
 final preparations for the removal of his 
 family and household goods. On the 
 
01|0rt ^torwH of il)t IJymttB 21 
 
 day appointed for the moving, surround- 
 ed by his weeping parishioners, he was 
 busily engaged in loading furniture, 
 boxes and bundles, on six or seven 
 wagons which were to carry him and his 
 to his new field of labor. All the while 
 this was going on his poor people stood 
 around him weeping, and praying him 
 that he would even yet change his mind, 
 clinging to him and begging him to 
 remain with them. The last wagon was 
 finally loaded, and the pastor and his 
 wife sat down on an empty box, to weep 
 with the people before saying a last 
 good-bye to them. *'0h, John," said 
 the good wife, "I cannot bear this. I 
 know not how to go." "No," said he, 
 ** nor I either. And — well — and we won't 
 go, either! Unload the wagons and put 
 everything in the place where it was be- 
 fore!" The London church was at once 
 informed by letter that the Rev. John 
 
^Itort Btaviesi of tl^e %mn0 23 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The story of the very favorite and 
 beautiful hymn, "Jesus, lover of my 
 soul," has often been told, but as it will 
 bear frequent repetition, we venture to 
 tell it once again. Your hymn book will 
 probably tell you that it was written by 
 Charles Wesley in the year 1740, but it 
 will not tell you the circumstances of 
 trouble and danger by which it was 
 wrung out of his heart, a knowledge of 
 which alone will enable one to grasp the 
 full meaning and power of this deathless 
 hymn. 
 
 The story runs that Charles Wesley 
 and his brother John were one evening 
 holding an open air meeting on the com- 
 mon. It was during the rise of Method- 
 ism in England, and the preachers of the 
 
new denomination were frequently as- 
 sailed by the mob and pelted with stones. 
 In the midst of the services the mob 
 came down on the preachers and dis- 
 persed the meeting, compelling the Wes- 
 ley brothers to flee for their lives. They 
 at first took refuge behind a hedge where 
 they protected themselves as well as 
 they could against the shower of stones 
 rattling around them, and shortly after, 
 in the gathering darkness, found a safe 
 retreat in a certain spring-house. Here 
 they struck a light with flint and tinder, 
 dusted their clothes and bathed their 
 bruises in the water of a spring which 
 there bubbled forth in a refreshing stream. 
 This done, they sat there listening and 
 waiting for a safe time to go to their 
 homes; and while thus at leisure, Charles 
 Wesley pounded a piece of lead into a 
 rude pencil and wrote on a scrap of 
 paper his immortal hymn. 
 
"Jesus, lover of my soul, 
 Let me to thy bosom fly. " 
 
 If the hymn be read carefully, it will be 
 observed how the circumstances of dan- 
 ger and trial under which it was composed 
 have been, as by a masterly inspiration, 
 woven into its very warp and woof. 
 The angry mob furnished the conception 
 of the "nearer waters," "the tempest,'* 
 and "the storm." With reference to 
 their having sheltered their heads behind 
 the hedge, he wrote 
 
 "Cover my defenceless head 
 With the shadow of Thy wing. " 
 
 The spring-house and the hedge sug- 
 gested the line, "Safe into the haven 
 guide," and the cool waters of the spring 
 became a type of Him who is the "Foun- 
 tain opened in Israel for sin and unclean- 
 ness," of whose waters if a man drink 
 
26 Biftirt BtamB of tlfi ^^mx^B 
 
 he shall never thirst again, and of whom 
 the poet wrote those words which will 
 never cease to be sung until we all drink 
 of the waters of the "River of Life" in 
 Heaven — 
 
 "Plenteous grace with Thee is found, 
 Grace to cover all my sin; 
 Let the healing streams abound, 
 Make and keep me pure within. 
 
 Thou of life the fountain art, 
 
 Freely let me take of Thee, 
 Spring Thou up within my heart. 
 
 Rise to all eternity." 
 
 This hymn, especially when sung with 
 some knowledge of its historical origin, 
 is the prayer of the persecuted believer 
 fleeing to Christ for protection and help. 
 To the true believer the world often 
 appears not only a desert, but a desert 
 swept by a continual storm. It is only 
 in Christ that we find refreshment and 
 
safety. "In the world ye shall have 
 tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have 
 overcome the world." 
 
 A War Incident 
 
 A party of Northern tourists formed 
 part of a large company gathered on the 
 deck of an excursion steamer that was 
 moving slowly down the historic Potomac 
 one beautiful evening in the summer of 
 1881 . A gentleman, who has since gained 
 a national reputation as an evangelist 
 of song, had been delighting the party 
 with his happy rendering of many fami- 
 liar hymns, the last being the sweet 
 petition so dear to every Christian heart, 
 ** Jesus, lover of my soul." 
 
 The singer gave the first two verses 
 with much feehng, and a peculiar em- 
 phasis upon the concluding lines that 
 thrilled every heart. A hush had fallen 
 upon the listeners that was not broken 
 
28 Bluott 01artefi af tin* ligmtw 
 
 for some seconds after the musical notes 
 had died away. Then a gentleman made 
 his way from the outskirts of the crowd 
 to the side of the singer, and accosted 
 him with, "Beg pardon, stranger, but 
 were you actively engaged in the late 
 war?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," the man of song answered, 
 courteously; "I fought under General 
 Grant." 
 
 "Well," the first speaker continued 
 with something like a sigh, "I did my 
 fighting on the other side, and think, in- 
 deed am quite sure, I was very near you 
 one bright night eighteen years ago this 
 very month. It was very much such a 
 night as this. If I am not mistaken, 
 you were on guard duty. We of the 
 South had sharp business on hand, and 
 you were one of the enemy. I crept 
 near your post of duty, my murderous 
 weapon in hand. The shadows hid me. 
 
Your beat led you into the clear light. 
 As you paced back and forth you were 
 humming the tune you have just sung. 
 I raised my gun and aimed at your heart, 
 and I had been selected by our com- 
 mander for the work because I was a 
 sure shot. Then, out upon the night 
 rang the words — 
 
 'Cover my defenceless head 
 With the shadow of Thy wing. * 
 
 Your prayer was answered. I couldn't 
 fire after that. And there was no attack 
 made on your camp that night. I felt 
 sure, when I heard you sing this evening, 
 that you were the man whose life I was 
 spared from taking." 
 
 The singer grasped the hand of the 
 Southerner, and said, with much emo- 
 tion: "I remember the night very well, 
 and distinctly the feeling of depression 
 and loneliness with which I went forth 
 
30 ^l|0rt ^tortfa of t^i IfgmttH 
 
 to my duty. I knew my post was one 
 of great danger, and I was more dejected 
 than I remember to have been at any 
 time during the service. I paced my 
 lonely beat, thinking of home and friends 
 and all that life holds dear. Then the 
 thought of God's care for all that He has 
 created came to me with peculiar force. 
 If He so cares for the sparrow, how much 
 more for man created in His own image? 
 And I sang the prayer of my heart, and 
 ceased to feel alone. How the prayer 
 was answered I never knew until this 
 evening. My heavenly Father thought 
 best to keep the knowledge from me for 
 eighteen years. How much of His good- 
 ness to us we shall be ignorant of until 
 it is revealed by the light of eternity! 
 'Jesus, lover of my soul,' has been a 
 favorite hymn to me; now it will be in- 
 expressibly dear. " 
 
^tyurt ^tnmB nf % iJ^gmtta 31 
 
 The incident given in the above sketch 
 is a true one, and was related by a lady 
 who was one of the party on the steamer. 
 
32 ^I|ort ^tama of ttj^ %m«a 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Trial, trouble, affliction, sorrow — out 
 of these have come our sweetest songs of 
 Zion. Who is there but knows that the 
 most beautiful and touching of the 
 Psalms were written at times when their 
 authors were in the depths of distress 
 and anguish? So true is the general 
 principle that Sorrow and Song go hand 
 in hand, like twin sisters, that a careful 
 analysis of our hymnbooks will show 
 that those hymns which are most en- 
 deared to us all were composed at times 
 when their authors were in the greatest 
 possible trouble of mind and heart. At 
 this we need not be at all surprised as 
 though it were something strange or 
 unusual; for it seems to be a general law, 
 prevaihng in the world of nature, even, 
 
Bl}att BtumB at tl|f l|ym«B 33 
 
 and much more in the world of mind, 
 that low things are the necessary ante- 
 cedents of high things. In God's crea- 
 tion chaos goes before cosmos, always, 
 and the night before the morning. As 
 the lark that soars the highest builds her 
 nest the lowest; as the nightingale that 
 sings so sweetly, sings, not under the 
 noonday sun, but in the shade where all 
 things rest — and sings best, too, when a 
 needle is thrust through her eye; as the 
 branches that are most laden with ripe 
 fruit bend the lowest; as the lowly 
 valleys are fruitful while the lofty moun- 
 tains are barren, and the most fragrant 
 spices will not yield their most precious 
 perfumes until they are crushed and 
 bruised — even so it seems with the human 
 soul. This, too, like the olive, must be 
 crushed ere it yield its fruit, and, like 
 the nightingale sings its sweetest songs 
 only when suffering the keenest anguish. 
 
34 #l|flrt BtnvXtB 0f t\}t %mn2 
 
 The lives of the song-writers of Zion 
 show, as few other hves show, that 
 "through much tribulation must we 
 enter into the kingdom of God." For, 
 the Latin word, ''tribulum/' (from which 
 the English word "tribulation" has evi- 
 dently been derived,) was the name for 
 a flail. And so, what are "tribulations" 
 but the blows of the heavenly husband- 
 man's flail, threshings, as it were, of our 
 inner spiritual man, whereby whatever 
 is light, trivial, and poor in us is separ- 
 ated from what is solid and true, the 
 chaff from the wheat .^^ As a quaint old 
 poem saith — 
 
 "Till from the straw the flail the corn doth beat. 
 Until the chaff be purged from the wheat, 
 Yea, till the mill the grains in pieces tear. 
 The richness of the flour will scarce appear. 
 So, till men's persons great afflictions touch, 
 If worth be formed, their worth is not so much; 
 Because, like wheat in straw, they have not yet 
 That value which in threshing they may get. 
 
Bl^an BtovuB of tlj^ ^}$mm 35 
 
 For, till the bruising flails of God's corrections 
 Have threshed out of us our vain affections; 
 Till those corruptions which do misbecome us 
 Are, by the Sacred Spirit, winnowed from us; 
 Until from us the straw of worldly treasures, 
 Till all the dusty chaff of empty pleasures. 
 Yea, till His flail upon us He doth lay, 
 To thresh the husk of this our flesh away, 
 And leave the soul uncovered: nay, yet more — 
 Till God shall make our very spirit poor. 
 We shall not up to highest wealth aspire: 
 But then we shall — and that is my desire!" 
 
 Through such threshings of God's hand, 
 through such uncovering of the soul 
 and making poor of the very spirit of 
 man, our sweetest song-writers evidently 
 passed at the time when they composed 
 these immortal hymns, which will never 
 cease to be sung until God's children 
 sing the new song in heaven. 
 
 One remarkable illustration of this we 
 have already noticed in connection with 
 the distressing circumstances in which 
 
36 ^Ifurt ^tnrt^fi of tiff ^gmtta 
 
 Charles Wesley wrote the hymn, "Jesus, 
 lover of my soul." Closely allied to 
 this, both in its substance and in the 
 nature of the circumstances in which it 
 originated, is that other beautiful hymn 
 so dear to every believer's heart, "Nearer, 
 my God, to Thee." This was com- 
 posed in the sick room. The author 
 of it was Mrs. Sarah Flower Adams, who 
 for many weary months watched and 
 waited by the bedside of a sister dying 
 with consumption, until she was so en- 
 feebled by a disease which she thus con- 
 tracted, that she herself, shortly after the 
 death of her sister, died, and so passed 
 into that nearer relation to God for 
 which she in her beautiful song so 
 ardently longed. As one reads over the 
 touching words of this undying song of 
 the dying, as it may well be called, the 
 image of the patient watcher, pale and 
 haggard, rises to the view. Perhaps it 
 
Bl^att BtatxtB of tly? l^gmnfi 37 
 
 was in some lone night watch, when 
 weary and faint, while all the house was 
 hushed and all the world was still, she 
 sat and wept, that that sweet song burst 
 forth from her overburdened soul — 
 
 "Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee. 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 
 That raiseth me. 
 Still all my song shall be 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee! 
 
 Though like a wanderer. 
 
 The sun gone down, 
 Darkness be over me, 
 
 My rest a stone — 
 Yet in my dreams I'd be 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee!" 
 
 The writer once heard this hymn, 
 "Nearer, my God, to Thee," sung under 
 very remarkable circumstances. It was 
 
38 01jflrt BtamB of tl|p %muH 
 
 during the Civil War. On June 18th, 
 1864, in one of our terrible battles in 
 front of Petersburg, Va., one of my 
 company fell. A ball had shattered his 
 leg. Two of us picked him up and carried 
 him on a stretcher to the Field Hospital 
 in the rear. There were many wounded 
 men there, all waiting their turn at the 
 amputating table, and the surgeons were 
 busy. When his turn came, we lifted 
 him up on the table, and the surgeon 
 said, "Sorry, my boy, but your leg must 
 come off, for the bone is all shattered 
 by the ball." "All right," said the 
 comrade. The chloroform was about 
 to be administered when the boy said, 
 "Wait a moment. Doctor, I want to 
 pray." "Yes," was the answer, "but 
 be quick about it, for others are waiting. " 
 The boy covered his face with his two 
 hands for a few moments, and then said, 
 "Now, I'm ready. Go ahead." 
 
Bipvt ^toms nf tl|j Ifymttfi 39 
 
 Quickly sinking into merciful uncon- 
 sciousness he lay under the knife, and 
 with the first thrust of the long knife 
 through his leg the patient broke into 
 singing "Nearer, my God, to Thee.*' 
 He sang with a clear voice and an ap- 
 parently unerring memory, missing none 
 of the stanzas and singing the hymn 
 through to the end. The surgeon worked 
 swiftly and surely, and with the skill of 
 a hand long used to the terrible work, 
 pausing only twice during the operation 
 to wipe the gathering mist from his 
 eyes, for while he worked the boy sang 
 on. When the operation was concluded, 
 tears were on many a cheek weather- 
 beaten and bronzed in long and hard 
 service, and the surgeon said, "I ven- 
 ture to say that that boy comes from a 
 Christian home somewhere away up 
 North — and may God bless him." 
 
 Akin to the general tenor of the hymn 
 
mentioned above, is that ever beautiful 
 even-song which is almost without a 
 rival amongst our sacred melodies — 
 
 "Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; 
 The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!" 
 
 For this truly splendid and classical 
 composition the Christian world is under 
 lasting obligations to the Rev. Henry 
 Francis Lyte, who was born at Kelso, 
 Scotland, June 1, 1793, and died at 
 Nice, 1847. Liberally educated at Trin- 
 ity College, Dublin, he entered the ser- 
 vice of the Master as a curate in the 
 Church of England. In the earlier part 
 of his ministry he settled in a dreary 
 Irish parish, where he had many strug- 
 gles with poverty. He seems, at this 
 time, to have had but little hearty inter- 
 est in his labors, and acknowledged 
 afterward that he went through with 
 the functions of his sacred office in a 
 
^^att BtamB of tl\t %mtta 41 
 
 merely mechanical and lifeless way. 
 But God took good care to arouse Henry 
 Francis Lyte to a warmer zeal, for He 
 had a grand work for him to do for the 
 Church. For, about this time, that is 
 while he was yet a curate in an obscure 
 parish in Ireland, being called one day 
 to the bedside of a neighboring clergy- 
 man who was dying, and had sent for 
 Lyte in great agony, "because he was 
 unpardoned and unprepared to die," 
 this sad scene left so deep an impression 
 on Lyte's mind that he says "I was 
 deeply affected and brought to look at 
 life and its issues with a different eye 
 than before; and I began to study my 
 Bible, and to preach in another manner 
 than I had formerly done." It was to 
 this revival in the heart and mind of 
 this gifted man that we are indebted for 
 the well known hymn — 
 
"Jesus, I my cross have taken, 
 All to leave and follow Thee; 
 Destitute, despised, forsaken — 
 Thou from hence my all shalt be. " 
 
 Compelled at length by ill health to re- 
 sign his charge, he settled at Brixham, 
 a seaport town in the county of Devon, 
 having probably chosen this location 
 for the advantage which the sea air, as it 
 was hoped, would afford him. The 
 population was largely composed of 
 rough, but warm-hearted fishermen, 
 amongst whom he spent the remainder 
 of his days, in many and sore struggles 
 with poverty. Here he "made hymns 
 for his little ones, hymns for his hardy 
 fishermen, and hymns for sufferers like 
 himself." It was here too, that he 
 wrote "Abide with me," which was the 
 last, as it was also the finest hymn which 
 he ever composed. 
 
 The story of the composition of it is 
 
#Ijnrt ^tuma of tii^ ^mtta 43 
 
 truly touching, and sheds great Hght 
 upon its meaning. He had been in ill 
 health a long time — scarcely able any 
 more to preach to his dear people. But 
 though, as he says, "I was scarcely able 
 to crawl, I made one more effort to 
 preach and administer the Holy Com- 
 munion. " As his people surrounded 
 the table of the Lord, they were all made 
 to feel, both by the deep solemnity of 
 his manner and by the earnest words 
 with which he addressed them, that their 
 pastor was amongst them for the last 
 time. Many tearful eyes witnessed the 
 distribution of the sacred elements as 
 given out by one who already stood on 
 the borders of the blessed land beyond. 
 Having with his dying breath given a 
 last adieu to his sorrowing flock, he re- 
 tired to his chamber fully aware of the 
 near approach of the end; and shortly 
 afterward, as his sun was drawing near 
 
44 ^l|0rt ^tort^H of tlj0 %mita 
 
 to his setting, he handed to a friend this 
 immortal hymn, which, accompanied by 
 music which his own hand had prepared, 
 is indeed like the song of the swan, his 
 sweetest as it was also his last — 
 
 ** Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; 
 The darkness deepens; Lord! with me abide; 
 When other helpers fail, and comforts flee. 
 Help of the helpless! Oh, abide with me! 
 
 Swift to its close ebbs out Hfe's httle day. 
 Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; 
 Change and decay in all around I see; 
 Oh Thou who changest not, abide with me! 
 
 Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; 
 Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies ; 
 Heaven's morning breaks and Earth's vain 
 
 shadows flee; 
 In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me! ' ' 
 
 To the end of all time, or certainly 
 until the English language shall cease to 
 
be spoken, this unparalleled version of 
 Christ's twilight walk with the two dis- 
 ciples to Emmaus will be sung. It will 
 be the favorite even-song of worshiping 
 congregations, and will never cease to 
 cheer the souls of believers as they come, 
 at last, to walk through the dark valley 
 of the shadow of death. 
 
 We turn attention to one more master- 
 piece of sacred song, which, like the one 
 above, was inspired by sickness, suffer- 
 ing and unutterable weariness of soul. 
 This is — 
 
 "Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom. 
 Lead Thou me on." 
 
 To one who has watched the setting 
 sun, as it goes down amid a flood of 
 crimson and gold, bathing the clouds 
 in splendor, and opening up vistas of 
 beauty unsuspected in the garish light of 
 noon-day, there is something in this 
 grand close of the day infinitely sugges- 
 
tive of the glories of heaven. It may 
 be but a few moments ere this swiftly 
 vanishing vision of heaven's pearly gates 
 and jasper walls and golden streets will 
 pass away, but evanescent though it be, 
 it is, to every pious and thoughtful soul, 
 a standing and oft repeated promise of 
 the glories which await the faithful in 
 the better land beyond. 
 
 It was the sight of the setting sun 
 that suggested the hymn we are pre- 
 sently considering. It was written by 
 John Henry Newman. In 1833, while 
 recovering from a severe illness, he was 
 upon the Mediterranean for his health. 
 One evening when the warmth had died 
 out of the air, he sat upon the deck of 
 the vessel wrapped in a shawl, weak and 
 homesick, watching the sun descend 
 through the Italian sky, and sink into the 
 sea. As the last traces of light faded 
 away in the west, the memory of home 
 
^Ijnrt Btatxts of tl?p %mttfl 47 
 
 and of the past came strongly upon him. 
 Retiring to his cabin, he at once com- 
 posed the splendid hymn — 
 
 "Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
 
 Lead Thou me on; 
 The night is dark and I am far from home. 
 
 Lead Thou me on. 
 Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
 The distant scene: one step enough for me." 
 
 How much the Church of all ages has 
 been, and ever to the end will be, depen- 
 dent on the sufferings of her people for 
 her purest and sweetest songs of praise, 
 no one can tell. We only know that 
 such is the case. It is in accordance with 
 God's law everywhere manifest, that 
 the sorrow must go before the song, as 
 the darkness goes before the day, and 
 the cross before the crown. Even in 
 heaven, when God's people sing the new 
 song which none save the redeemed of 
 
all ages can sing, it will, no doubt, be 
 the preceding sorrows and sufferings 
 endured on earth which alone will pro- 
 perly fit that mighty host to swell "the 
 song of them that triumph and the 
 shout of them that feast. " 
 
 Here is another hymn, a most touch- 
 ing song of Christian resignation, wrung 
 out of the very heart of a pious man 
 by affliction and suffering — "My Jesus, 
 as Thou wilt." Its author, Benjamin 
 Schmolke, was born about 1675. He was 
 the son of a poor minister in Silesia, 
 was educated for the ministry by some 
 benevolent person, became his father's 
 assistant in 1694, and was afterwards 
 himself pastor at Schweidnitz. In 1730, 
 he was paralysed and in part lost his 
 sight. Then his home burned down, 
 and all his little property was destroyed. 
 Next his wife died, and one by one all 
 his children passed away — and then, 
 
^Ijnrt BtavxsB of tift Ifgmtta 49 
 
 homeless and friendless, as the nightingale 
 sings most sweetly in her pain, and as 
 the olive yields no oil till beaten and 
 bruised, he gave to the Church through- 
 out the world a classic song of Christian 
 resignation which will be loved and sung 
 until sorrow shall be no more. This 
 grand old German hymn has been most 
 admirably translated by Miss Wink- 
 worth — 
 
 "My Jesus, as Thou wilt! 
 
 Oh, may Thy will be mine! 
 Into Thy hand of love 
 
 I would my all resign; 
 Through sorrow, or through joy, 
 
 Conduct me as Thine own, 
 And help me still to say — 
 
 My Lord, Thy will be done! 
 
 My Jesus, as Thou wilt! 
 
 Though seen through many a tear. 
 Let not my star of hope 
 
 Grow dim or disappear: 
 
50 ^I|ort ^0rt$a of tl|0 l^gmtta 
 
 Since Thou on earth hast wept 
 
 And sorrowed oft alone, 
 If I must weep with Thee — 
 
 My Lord, Thy will be done! 
 
 My Jesus as Thou wilt! 
 
 All shall be well for me; 
 Each changing future scene 
 
 I gladly trust with Thee : 
 Straight to my home above 
 
 I travel calmly on. 
 And sing, in life or death. 
 
 My Lord, Thy will be done!" 
 
 This hymn, we think and venture to 
 say, should always be sung to "Jewett" 
 — one of Carl Maria Von Weber's ex- 
 quisite flights of song — for this is like 
 no other in its intimate interpretation 
 of the prayerful words. The tune, ar- 
 ranged by Joseph Holbrook, is from an 
 opera — the overture to Weber's *'Der 
 Freisehiitz. " 
 
Bl^att ^t0n^s 0f tl|0 Ifgmtta 51 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Nowhere, perhaps, is the feehng of 
 fellowship and communion with all of 
 God's people everywhere so prominent 
 as in the hymns we sing. It has often 
 been remarked that a true hymn must 
 not express what is peculiar to the in- 
 dividual who composes it, nor even to the 
 class or community to which he may 
 chance to belong. It must breathe a 
 broad and truly catholic spirit. It must 
 give expression to feelings or sentiments 
 which are common to all Christians. It 
 must give voice to the conscious faith of 
 the whole church. Such a hymn will 
 live: and if you will look into the matter 
 carefully, you will find, too, that only 
 such do live. A distinctively Methodist 
 hymn, for example, is doomed to an 
 
52 ^l|0rt ^tnrt^a of tljj 
 
 early death. A strongly Presbyterian 
 hymn will never live to be twenty-one 
 years old. But a truly catholic hymn, 
 that is, one that breathes a broad and 
 liberal Christian spirit, and expresses 
 feelings, hopes, fears, confessions, such 
 as are common to all Christian people, 
 will live forever. Charles Wesley wrote 
 "Jesus, lover of my soul," but there is 
 nothing said in it about the peculiar tenets 
 of the Methodist denomination. Sarah 
 Flower Adams wrote "Nearer, my God, 
 to Thee," and she was a Unitarian, but 
 we fail to find any traces of Unitarianism 
 in her beautiful hymn. Denomination- 
 alism seems to be very good and proper 
 in the catechism or in the confession of 
 faith, but it seems quite out of place in 
 the hymn book. If there is one point 
 where people of different church relations 
 do meet on common ground, and hold 
 sweet communion and fellowship with one 
 
another, it is in the hymn book. All 
 Christian people seem to have vested 
 rights in the songs of Zion, for they have 
 all contributed their portion to the general 
 collection. Here Luther's hymn *' A 
 mighty fortress is our God, " stands side 
 by side with the beautiful songs of the 
 middle-age monks, as 
 
 "Jesus, the very thought of Thee 
 With sweetness fills my breast," 
 
 and 
 
 "Jerusalem, the golden, 
 With milk and honey blest." 
 
 Here the author of "Nearer, my God, 
 to Thee" stands side by side with 
 the author of "I love Thy kingdom, 
 Lord." Here the Baptist sings "Blest 
 be the tie that binds, " and the Methodist 
 "All hail the power of Jesus' name." 
 
54 ^Ijort BtamB nf t\)t %mtta 
 
 We are difiFerent in our ways of worship- 
 ing and in our theology, but we hold to 
 the same Bible and use essentially the 
 same hymns of praise. 
 
 'A very large proportion of our best 
 hymns we owe to the remarkable genius of 
 the Rev. Dr. Isaac Watts. He was born 
 in England, 1674, and was a minister of the 
 Gospel in what was known in those days 
 as the "Independent Church" — a body 
 of believers which arose in the reign of 
 Queen Elizabeth, and which was dis- 
 tinguished from Episcopacy on the one 
 hand and Presbytery on the other. From 
 his earliest years he was noted for his 
 piety as well as the remarkable brilliancy 
 of his mind. Like Zaccheus of old, he was 
 a very small man physically, being both 
 short of stature and slender in form. It 
 is related that on one occasion, when he 
 was stopping over night at a hotel, some 
 curious stranger, on ascertaining who the 
 
ISAAC WATTS. 
 
^lynrt BtantB nf tljF %mtta 55 
 
 little man was, exclamed, in a somewhat 
 louder tone than he had intended," What! 
 is that great Dr. Watts!" It was not 
 designed that this should be overheard; 
 but the little man had very sharp ears, 
 and at once turned toward his critic and 
 replied : 
 
 "Were I so tall to reach the pole. 
 Or grasp the ocean in my span, 
 I must be measured by my soul — 
 The mind's the measure of the man. " 
 
 Watts is only one example out of many 
 of the general truth that it hath pleased 
 the good Lord to make use of the weak 
 things of this world to accomplish His 
 wonderful purposes. Like many other 
 great and useful preachers, Watts was 
 very weak physically, being in fact an 
 invalid; and yet he served his church 
 faithfully for a period of fifty years. 
 After preaching he was frequently so 
 
much exhausted as to be obliged to 
 go directly to his house and retire at 
 once to bed, having his room closed 
 in darkness and silence. Yet, though 
 physically small to insignificance, and 
 often sick and weak to utter prostration, 
 he placed the Church of Christ, in all 
 lands and in every age, under lasting 
 obligations for the most excellent hymns 
 which came from his pen. He wrote a 
 great many hymns, of which some, of 
 course, are of inferior merit; but at the 
 same time it is calculated that "more 
 hymns which approach to a very high 
 standard of excellence may be found in 
 his works than in those of any other 
 Enghsh writer." Among these may be 
 mentioned, 
 
 "When I survey the wondrous cross 
 On which the Prince of Glory died, 
 My richest gain I count but loss. 
 
 And pour contempt on all my pride. " 
 
^l|0rt ^tamsi txf tly? ^^mm 57 
 
 "Jesus shall reign where'er the sun 
 Does his successive journeys run: 
 His kingdom stretch from shore to shore. 
 Till moons shall wax and wane no more. 
 
 "Joy to the world, the Lord is come! 
 Let earth receive her king. 
 Let every heart prepare Him room, 
 And heaven and nature sing." 
 
 "My soul repeat His praise, 
 Whose mercies are so great: 
 Whose anger is so slow to rise, 
 So ready to abate." 
 
 "Oh God, our help in ages past. 
 Our hope for years to come. 
 Our shelter from the stormy blast, 
 And our eternal home. " 
 
58 Bl^BXt BtaxuB at % %m«a 
 
 "Before Jehovah's awful throne, 
 Ye nations bow with sacred joy; 
 Know that the Lord is God alone, 
 He can create and He destroy. " 
 
 Concerning the last example here given, 
 which the reader will recognize as Watts' 
 version of the One Hundredth Psalm, 
 it may be well to remark that the first 
 stanza is Wesley's, not Watts'. As origi- 
 nally written by Watts, the Psalm read, 
 
 "Sing to the Lord with joyful voice; 
 Let every land His name adore: 
 The British Isles shall send the noise 
 Across the ocean to the shore." 
 
 The second stanza ran — 
 
 "Nations attend before His throne 
 With solemn fear, with sacred joy. " 
 
 The Church in all lands is under 
 lasting obligations to Wesley for having 
 
^I|0rt BtBtxtB of tl|0 ?l?ymttB 59 
 
 swept all this away, and for substituting 
 in its stead that truly grand and thrill- 
 ing first verse, "Before Jehovah's awful 
 throne. " 
 
 The hymn, "There is a land of pure 
 delight," also comes from the pen of 
 Dr. Watts. He was sitting one evening 
 looking out of a window over the river 
 Itchen in Southampton, and in full view 
 of the beautiful Isle of Wight, when he 
 composed it. The scenery which there 
 greets the eye of the beholder, it is said, 
 is indeed a type of that Paradise of 
 which the poet sang. The country be- 
 yond the river rises from the margin of 
 the flood, and swells into a boundless 
 prospect, all mantled in the richest 
 verdure of summer, checkered with for- 
 est-growth and fruitful fields under the 
 highest cultivation, and gardens and 
 villas, and every adornment which the 
 
60 ^l|0rt 0t0neB of tl|p %mtt0 
 
 hand of man, in a series of ages, could 
 create on such susceptible ground. 
 
 As the poet looked upon the scenery 
 thus presented to view, he was inspired 
 to sing of the fairer prospect of that 
 blessed and beautiful Canaan which to 
 the eye of the believer, rises beyond the 
 swelling flood of the Jordan of Death, 
 and where — 
 
 "Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
 Stand dressed in living green; 
 So to the Jews, old Canaan stood 
 While Jordan rolled between." 
 
^I|ort ^orl00 at tl|p ^mna 61 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 From hymns written by a man who 
 was feeble physically let us pass to those 
 of a man who was feeble mentally. The 
 poet William Cowper was born 1731. 
 He was the son of an English clergyman. 
 From childhood he was shy, nervous, 
 and physically feeble. At the age of 
 eighteen he began the study of law, but 
 did not well succeed. He gradually 
 became melancholy, and made several 
 attempts at suicide. Twenty times he 
 put a bottle containing poison to his 
 lips, but did not drink. Then he at- 
 tempted to drown himself, and at last 
 he tried hanging himself by a rope at 
 the top of his door; but the rope broke, 
 and other means failing he was forced 
 to live on in spite of himself, for God had 
 
work for William Cowper to do. At 
 length his friends placed him in an insane 
 asylum, where after a period of two 
 years he was restored mentally, and saved 
 spiritually. Before his days ended, how- 
 ever, his malady returned, and he died 
 insane. 
 
 And yet, to this poor mentally de- 
 ranged man are we indebted for such 
 masterpieces of hymnology as *'God 
 moves in a mysterious way," "There is 
 a fountain filled with blood," and "Oh, 
 for a closer walk with God." 
 
 The first of these, strange as it may 
 seem, was composed while the author 
 was under a cloud of temporary insanity. 
 It is related that "when under the in- 
 fluence of the fits of mental derangement 
 to which he was subject, he most un- 
 happily but firmly believed that the 
 divine will was that he should drown 
 himself in a particular part of the river 
 
Ouse, some two or three miles from his 
 residence at Olney. One evening he 
 called for a post-chaise from one of the 
 hotels in the town, and ordered the driver 
 to take him to that spot, which he 
 readily undertook to do as he well knew 
 the place. On this occasion, however, 
 several hours were consumed in seeking 
 it, and utterly in vain. The man was 
 at length reluctantly compelled to ac- 
 knowledge that he had entirely lost the 
 way." Cowper returned to his house, 
 and was so impressed with the strange 
 providence which had frustrated his 
 design and prevented his rash inten- 
 tion, that he immediately sat down and 
 wrote the hymn so admirably descriptive 
 of God's mysterious providence. Con- 
 sidered by itself, and quite indepen- 
 dently of the circumstances in which it 
 was written, this hymn of Cowper's 
 must always rank among the master- 
 
pieces of sacred poetry. Grand in con- 
 ception and chaste in diction, each 
 stanza presenting a new and striking 
 image, and every hne forcibly develop- 
 ing the underlying thought of the whole 
 composition, it cannot fail to be regarded 
 as a perfect gem of sacred song. God's 
 planting His footsteps in the sea and 
 riding upon the storm — treasuring up His 
 bright designs deep in unfathomable 
 mines — the dark and dreadful clouds of 
 affliction big with mercy, and ready to 
 break in blessing on the heads of God's 
 people — the hiding of God's smiling face 
 behind a frowning providence — it is not 
 often one finds such exquisitely expres- 
 sive and brilliant imagery as this woven 
 into the warp and woof of sacred song, 
 and with such consummate skill 
 
 Besides this, Cowper wrote a great 
 many other hymns, of which we shall 
 mention only two. Cowper lived dur- 
 
ing the times when Methodism arose in 
 England, and some of his best compo- 
 sitions were due to the inspiration of 
 this rehgious movement. The Rev. John 
 Newton, a friend of his, held meet- 
 ings of a Methodistic kind which Cow- 
 per frequently attended. On one occa- 
 sion Newton requested him to prepare 
 a hymn for his prayermeeting, and shortly 
 thereafter the Olney prayermeeting sang 
 for the first time a hymn which has long 
 since encircled the globe with its hallowed 
 influences — 
 
 "There is a fountain filled with blood, 
 Drawn from Immanuel's veins, 
 And sinners plunged beneath that flood 
 Lose all their guilty stains." 
 
 The hymn, '*0, for a closer walk 
 with God," we also owe to Cowper. It 
 was probably written at a time when he 
 had relapsed into deep melancholy and 
 
was wandering on the borders of in- 
 sanity. Sadly and sorrowfully seeking 
 again for the blessedness he knew when 
 first he saw the Lord, and pitifully pray- 
 ing for the return of the Holy Spirit, he 
 at last succumbed to his malady, but 
 died quietly and peacefully. Entering 
 thus into rest at last, and joining the 
 blessed company of the redeemed of all 
 ages, he no doubt realized as never be- 
 fore the beauty and sweetness of his 
 own words, first sung in the humble 
 Olney prayermeeting, 
 
 "Then, in a nobler, sweeter song, 
 I'll sing Thy power to save. 
 When this poor lisping, stamm'ring tongue 
 Lies silent in the grave. " 
 
 The truth that it pleases the good 
 Lord to employ the meanest agencies for 
 the accomplishment of His purposes, is 
 well illustrated in the history of the 
 
writer of the well-known hymn, ''Rock 
 of Ages, Cleft for Me. " It was written 
 by the Rev. Augustus Toplady (born 
 1740), and first appeared, March, 1776, 
 in "The Gospel Magazine," which he 
 edited. But little is known of the im- 
 mediate circumstances connected with 
 the composition of this widely known 
 hymn; but Toplady himself acknowl- 
 edges that the hymn was, in a large 
 measure, at least, indirectly due to the 
 agency of an illiterate man, who, al- 
 though he did not himself write the hymn, 
 yet was the providential means of its 
 being written by another. Toplady re- 
 lates that when he was a boy, only six- 
 teen years of age, while on a visit to 
 Ireland in company with his widowed 
 mother, he one day happened to stroll 
 into a barn, where an earnest, but un- 
 educated layman was preaching from 
 the text: "Ye who sometime were afar 
 
68 B>lj0rt #tonw of tlft l^yttttta 
 
 off, are made nigh by the blood of 
 Christ." The sermon made a deep and 
 lasting impression upon the lad's mind; 
 it led to his conversion; he became a 
 useful and celebrated preacher; and, 
 although he did much good work be- 
 sides, he will in all probability be best 
 and longest remembered as the author 
 of "Rock of Ages." Strange, that the 
 influence of a sermon preached in a barn 
 to a handful of people, by a man who 
 could hardly spell his own name, should 
 render possible, and indirectly produce, 
 a hymn which should be translated into 
 almost every tongue spoken by man, 
 and which will continue to bring com- 
 fort and cheer to God's people in every 
 age to the end of time. 
 
 The life and the work of a minister 
 often seems discouraging enough. Often 
 and often the preacher, seeing so little 
 immediate results of his labors, is tempted 
 
^I|0rt BtaxxtB of t\}t ilJgmtiH 69 
 
 to sit down in despair. Yet, who knows 
 how great good may be done through 
 his humble instrumentahty of which 
 he will never hear in this world. See 
 what was accomplished by one sermon, 
 and that by a poor, uneducated man! 
 Perhaps he never heard of it. Perhaps 
 he was in his grave, this poor illiterate 
 Irishman, before "Rock of Ages" found 
 its way into every home and every 
 church in England, and set out on its 
 mission of comfort and cheer to the whole 
 world. Only let us labor on, in season 
 and out, and God will no doubt care for 
 the results. *'In the morning sow thy 
 seed, and in the evening withhold not 
 thy hand, for thou knowest not whether 
 shall prosper, this or that, or whether 
 they shall be both alike good." 
 
70 ^Ijnrt BinmB of tl|f l^gmita 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 We have seen that many of our best 
 hymns were originally suggested by the 
 peculiar circumstances or special ex- 
 periences of the persons who composed 
 them. This seems to have been the 
 case with the hymn, "Guide me, O Thou 
 great Jehovah." It was written by the 
 Rev. Dr. William Williams, who was an 
 itinerant Methodist minister in the time 
 of Whitefield during the eighteenth cen- 
 tury. He was born in the year 1717 in 
 Wales, was well educated, became a poet 
 of no little celebrity, studied medicine, 
 was converted during the Methodist 
 movement then prevailing, and at length 
 devoted himself to the work of the 
 ministry. He labored diligently for over 
 half a century in the service of the Master, 
 
^I|0rt ^tarxtB of t\]t %mua 71 
 
 traveling on an average nearly twenty- 
 five hundred miles a year for more than 
 forty years. His numerous and ex- 
 tended journeys were generally made 
 either on foot or on horseback, for in 
 those days there were no railroads, and 
 and in the country in which he labored 
 there were few stagecoaches. There can 
 be little doubt that his long and solitary 
 journeys among the hills and over the 
 moors, where he frequently lost his way 
 and was forced to spend the night, in 
 cold and hunger, under the open sky, 
 suggested that ever beautiful song of 
 the Christian pilgrim — 
 
 "Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah, 
 Pilgrim through this barren land; 
 I am weak, but Thou art mighty. 
 Hold me with Thy powerful hand; 
 Bread of Heaven! 
 Feed me now and evermore. 
 
72 ^tfort Btatxss of tljF %mttB 
 
 Open now the crystal fountain 
 
 Whence the healing streams do flow; 
 
 Let the fiery, cloudy pillar 
 
 Lead me all my journey through; 
 Strong Deliverer! 
 
 Be Thou still my strength and shield. " 
 
 This may well be called the prayer of 
 the Christian pilgrim. God's children in 
 every age are *' strangers and pilgrims." 
 They are aliens in the world. They seek 
 a country which lieth afar, and a '*city 
 whose builder and maker is God." 
 They often lose their way, and fall into 
 many misfortunes on their journey, and 
 well may they daily pray and sing, 
 "Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah!" 
 
 It may be here well worthy of remark 
 that this hymn is usually sung to the 
 good old tune of "Autumn," and that 
 this was the tune played by the heroic 
 band of musicians standing in water up 
 to their waists on the deck of the ill- 
 
^I|0rt ^tamB of tl|? Ifgmtta 73 
 
 fated steamer, "The Titanic," as she 
 was sinking to her grave in the ocean, 
 Sunday night, April 14-15, 1912, carry- 
 ing with her 1635 men, women and 
 children. What a pathetic appeal was 
 not that playing of "Guide me, O Thou 
 great Jehovah" — a prayerful petition 
 to the great and almighty God who 
 "holds the winds in His fist, and the 
 seas in the hollow of His hand. " 
 
 An additional very significant inci- 
 dent in connection with this greatest of 
 all marine disasters may here be very 
 appropriately recorded. The incident is 
 narrated in several newspapers of Phila- 
 delphia, by Mr. Laurence Beasley, of 
 New York City, a survivor. Mr. Beas- 
 ley says: 
 
 "One incident has occurred to me 
 during the week that has elapsed since 
 we landed in New York, that may be of 
 interest especially to those who had 
 
74 §>^xitt ^tantB of tl|f l^gmtta 
 
 friends on board. Among the pas- 
 sengers were the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Carter, who were on their way to Canada. 
 Mr. Carter was instrumental in arrang- 
 ing on the Sunday evening, a few hours 
 before we struck, what he called 'a 
 hymn sing-song.' 
 
 "There was no evening service, and he 
 invited to the saloon such passengers as 
 cared to come to sing hymns. Anyone 
 was allowed to choose a hymn, and as 
 many were present and were thoroughly 
 enjoying the quite informal gathering, 
 the singing went on to a quite late hour. 
 
 "Mr. Carter was apparently well ac- 
 quainted with the history of many of 
 the hymns, their authors, where they 
 were written and in what circumstances, 
 and he interested all present with his 
 remarks on each hymn before it was 
 sung. I recollect that many chose hymns 
 dealing with safety at sea. Tor those 
 
#I|nrt #t0nfa of tl^t %mttB 75 
 
 in peril on the sea' was sung by all with 
 no hint of the peril that lay but a very 
 few miles ahead. 
 
 ** Mr. Carter closed with a few words of 
 thanks to the Purser for allowing him to 
 use the saloon, made a few remarks as 
 to the happy voyage we had had on a 
 maiden trip and the safety there was in 
 this vessel, and then the meeting closed 
 with an impromptu prayer by him. 
 This cannot have been more than two 
 hours before the Titanic struck. My 
 motive in mentioning this is that some 
 of those who have lost relatives may like 
 to know that their friends must have 
 been helped and cheered at the last by 
 the words they had sung but a short 
 time before; the sound of singing voices 
 must have been still a conscious one to 
 many as they stood on the deck faced 
 with the Teril on the Sea.'" 
 
 Closely allied to this in point of senti- 
 
76 ^l|0rt ^tomB of tl|0 Ifgrnna 
 
 ment is that other well-known hymn, 
 '^^My faith looks up to Thee." The 
 author of this was Dr. Ray Palmer, a 
 native of Rhode Island. He graduated 
 at Yale College in 1830, and after gradu- 
 ation found his way to New York city, 
 in great poverty, and there opened a 
 school for young ladies. He had many 
 struggles for a livelihood, was much 
 alone and often weary and sad at heart, 
 but he was a most earnest Christian. 
 In December of the year in which he 
 went to New York, he sat down in his 
 lonely room and after a period of medi- 
 tation on the Saviour's infinite love, and 
 the need of more earnest self-consecra- 
 tion to His service and praise, he wrote 
 this hymn in his pocket memorandum 
 book, never intending that it should be 
 seen by another person. He wished no 
 one's eyes ever to rest on those beautiful 
 words of self-surrender to Christ, be- 
 
#ij0rt Btama of tift %mtta 77 
 
 cause he regarded his hymn as a sacred 
 prayer of his own to his Saviour, and 
 would as httle have thought of pre- 
 senting it to the pubhc as of making 
 known the secrets of his own devotions. 
 For two years he carried this hymn in 
 his pocket, next to his heart. But the 
 good Lord had need of that hymn, and 
 took good care that the hght and com- 
 fort there was in it for milhons of sorrow- 
 ing souls the world over, should not re- 
 main hidden under a bushel, but be put 
 on the candlestick that it might give 
 light to all in the house. For, one day. 
 Dr. Lowell Mason met young Ray Palmer 
 on the street in Boston, and asked him 
 to write a hymn for his "Spiritual 
 Songs" which he was then preparing 
 for the press. The young college gradu- 
 ate then modestly drew from his pocket 
 the lines "My faith looks up to Thee," 
 and gave them to Dr. Mason. The 
 
V 
 
 latter took them home with him to his 
 room, and catching an inspiration simi- 
 lar to that of the hymn, he composed a 
 tune called "Olivet," to which the 
 hymn has been wedded to this day. -^ 
 Dr. Mason met the author a few days 
 afterward, and said: '*Mr. Palmer, you 
 may live many years and do many good 
 things, but I think you will be best 
 known to posterity as the author of this 
 beautiful hymn."/ This prediction has 
 long since been fulfilled. The man who 
 first out of the fullness of his heart sang 
 this sweet song of Calvary has composed 
 many tender and beautiful poems and 
 discourses, but "his devout mind flow- 
 ered out in one matchless lily whose 
 rich odors have filled the courts of our 
 God with fragrance." 3 On the shelves 
 and counters of our booksellers this im- 
 mortal composition takes its place, beau- 
 tifully bound and illustrated, as one of 
 
 A 
 
the "Holiday books," and is to be 
 found side by side with such master- 
 pieces as Newman's "Lead, Kindly 
 Light," Lyte's "Abide with me," and 
 Keble's "Sun of my soul. Thou Saviour 
 dear." With these we well may rank 
 Ray Palmer's hymn — 
 
 "My faith looks up to Thee, 
 Thou Lamb of Calvary, 
 
 Saviour divine; 
 Now hear me while I pray; 
 Take all my guilt away; 
 Oh, let me from this day 
 Be wholly Thine!" 
 
 This is not the only instance on record 
 of a man writing many hymns that are 
 good and but only one that will live 
 long; and the above incident is quite in 
 line with what we have so often noticed 
 in these brief sketches — that our best 
 and finest hymns have been fairly wrung 
 
80 ^Ijort ^toms of tl|f 
 
 out of the soul of the composer by some 
 great sorrow, grief, or trouble. Remem- 
 ber, when you sing this hymn, that Ray 
 Palmer was poor, alone in a great city, 
 unfriended, naturally timid and reserved, 
 not knowing what hardships might be 
 before him in the great world, and feeling 
 his loneliness and helplessness, turned in 
 whole-hearted, trustful faith to God and 
 Christ. 
 
^l|0rt BtomB nf tl|? l?gm«B 81 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 To the pen of the late Rev. Dr. Henry 
 Harbaugh, the president of the Theo- 
 logical Seminary of the Reformed Church, 
 located at the time at Mercersburg, Pa., 
 we are indebted for several most beauti- 
 ful and enduring hymns. The first of 
 these is — 
 
 "Jesus, to Thy cross I hasten. 
 
 In all weariness my home; 
 Let Thy dying love come o'er me. 
 
 Light and covert in the gloom. 
 Saviour, hide me, Saviour, hide me, 
 
 Till the hour of gloom is o'er!" 
 
 The hymn comprises three stanzas, 
 and appears in many collections anony- 
 mously, for it is only of late that the 
 
authorship has come to Hght. In leaf- 
 ing over a book of poems by the author 
 of this hymn, entitled, "Harbaugh's 
 Poems," a friend marked its first ap- 
 pearance in that collection. 
 
 Dr. Harbaugh died in 1867, while 
 president of the Seminary above named. 
 He was a diligent student and scholar as 
 well as a fruitful writer, especially of 
 lyric poetry. He wrote quite a number 
 of hymns in addition to the one above 
 mentioned, of which, however, none 
 seems likely to rival the excellency of the 
 following, which has found its way into 
 the hymnals of most of the churches, and 
 bids fair to be in favor while time shall 
 last — 
 
 "Jesus, I live to Thee, 
 The loveliest and best. 
 My life in Thee, Thy life in me, 
 In Thy blest love I rest. 
 
Jesus, I die to Thee, 
 
 Whenever death shall come. 
 
 To die in Thee is life to me 
 In my eternal home. 
 
 Whether to live or die, 
 
 I know not which is best. 
 To live in Thee is bliss to me — 
 
 To die is endless rest. 
 
 Living or dying. Lord, 
 
 I ask but to be Thine. 
 My Ufe in Thee, Thy life in me. 
 
 Makes heaven forever mine." 
 
 That is truly a hymn that will live. 
 Like Ray Palmer's, this hymn breathes 
 the spirit of utter and absolute self-con- 
 secration to Christ. It is full of "sweet- 
 ness and light." Perhaps the author's 
 own triumphant death was the best ex- 
 emplification of his hymn. The beloved 
 president of the Seminary lay dying in 
 the darkened chamber at Mercersburg, 
 
84 Bi^axt BtansB of ttjp %m«0 
 
 and anxious and affectionate friends 
 moved about with noiseless tread and 
 eyes suffused with tears. Could it be 
 that he who, as man looked upon it, was 
 so much needed, and without whom it 
 was feared by many the Church could 
 not successfully carry forward its work, 
 must be taken away? Just when the 
 dying, weary man seemed to be passing 
 away, as he lay in a deep and apparently 
 unconscious state, some one wishing to 
 arouse him that he might speak yet one 
 more word to his sorrowing household, 
 called him with a loud voice. Opening 
 his eyes wearily, as if he had come from 
 far away, the dying man said with a 
 smile, *'0h, why called ye me back from 
 the golden gates?" Then he relapsed 
 into that deep sleep which knows no 
 waking for the believer until he wakes in 
 the blessed land beyond. 
 The hymn commencing 
 
^Ijnrt Btarl^B of ti^t %mtta 85 
 
 "Jesus, and shall it ever be 
 A mortal man ashamed of Thee ? " 
 
 apart from the real value of the com- 
 position, is remarkable for the fact that 
 it was written by a boy only ten years 
 of age. The author of it was Joseph 
 Grigg. It first appeared in an English 
 magazine, and was entitled '* Shame of 
 Jesus conquered by love. By a youth 
 of ten years." It was, no doubt, or- 
 iginally suggested by the shame which 
 young people often experience in making 
 an open and public confession of Christ's 
 name, and in witnessing the same in the 
 company of godless companions. This 
 feeling of shame of religion is one of the 
 devices of the evil one to lead the souls 
 of men astray. It is a very common 
 obstacle in the way of young believers 
 particularly, and in many cases it proves 
 almost insuperable. With this terrible 
 
86 #I|ort BtantB of tift %mtta 
 
 threat of "what the world will say," 
 the evil one frightens many poor souls 
 away from the open door of mercy. 
 Young men are ashamed to confess 
 Christ's name lest their godless com- 
 panions make sport of them. If these 
 lines should chance to fall under the eye 
 of any such young people we kindly ask 
 them, for their own soul's sake, to read 
 this hymn, and to remember that it was 
 written by a young boy who was in the 
 same case as themselves. It is related 
 that a young person who had made a 
 profession of religion and was much 
 teased and persecuted by godless com- 
 panions, stood firm; and on being asked 
 by his pastor why he did not give way, 
 he said: "Sir, I once heard you say in a 
 sermon that if we let the wicked laugh 
 us out of heaven into hell, they could 
 not laugh us out of hell into heaven 
 again. " 
 
The author of this hymn was much 
 persecuted, for he was compelled to live 
 and work in circumstances in which he 
 was obliged to associate with profane 
 persons to whom all religious belief was 
 a standing theme of jest and mockery. 
 But the boy clung to Jesus, well content 
 not to be ashamed of Jesus, and only 
 hoping that Jesus would not be ashamed 
 of him. 
 
 "Jesus! and shall it ever be, 
 A mortal man ashamed of Thee? 
 Ashamed of Thee! whom angels praise, 
 Whose glories shine through endless days ? 
 
 Ashamed of Jesus! Sooner far 
 Let evening blush to own a star; 
 He sheds the beams of light divine 
 O'er this benighted soul of mine. 
 
 Ashamed of Jesus! Just as soon 
 Let midnight be ashamed of noon; 
 'Tis midnight with my soul, till He, 
 Bright morning star, bids darkness flee. " 
 
88 i'liort BtBmn of tl|? %mtta 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Everybody knows the good old mis- 
 sionary hymn, "From Greenland's icy 
 mountains," but not everybody has 
 heard the story of its composition. 
 The author of it was Reginald Heber, 
 D. D., who after the composition of the 
 hymn himself became a missionary to 
 India, and died Bishop of Calcutta. He 
 was one of the most accomplished schol- 
 ars whom the University of Oxford ever 
 produced. He was born at Malpas, in 
 Cheshire, England, in the year 1783. 
 At the age of seventeen he was entered 
 at Brasenose College, Oxford, where he 
 became a distinguished student, carry- 
 ing away many of the highest prizes for 
 poems and essays. His prize poem on 
 Palestine is generally considered the best 
 
REGINALD HEBER, 
 
ever written at Oxford. His fame rests 
 mainly upon his hymns which, as hterary 
 compositions, rank among the best in the 
 Enghsh language. From his very earliest 
 years he was remarkable for his piety 
 and great kindness and affection. So 
 great and accurate was his knowledge of 
 the Bible that "when only five years old, 
 when his father and some friends were 
 discussing as to the book of the Bible 
 where some particular passage could be 
 found, they turned to little Reginald 
 for information, and he soon laid finger 
 on chapter and verse." As an instance 
 of the pious turn of his mind, it is re- 
 lated that when very young, hearing the 
 conundrum, ''Where was Moses when 
 the light went out," he solemnly said, 
 "On Mount Nebo; for there he died, 
 and it may be said that his lamp of life 
 went out there. " He was also so benev- 
 olent that he would give all that he had 
 
90 i'lfort §>ttimB of % %mtta 
 
 to the poor, so that his parents had to 
 sew the bank-notes, which they gave 
 him for his half-years school money, in 
 the lining of his pockets, that he might 
 not give all his money away in charity 
 on the road to school. In 1807 he was 
 admitted to orders, and after sixteen 
 years of faithful labor in the ministry in 
 England, he went to India as a mission- 
 ary in 1823, where he labored for a period 
 of three years, with such devotion to 
 his work among the heathen that, from 
 over exertion in an unfavorable climate, 
 he died in an apoplectic fit while in his 
 bath, April 13, 1826. 
 
 Heber was the author of many hymns, 
 all alike distinguished by finish and 
 style, pathos, and soaring aspiration. 
 To his poetic genius we are indebted for 
 **Lo, He comes, with clouds descending," 
 "By cool Siloam's shady rill," "Jesus 
 Christ is risen today," "Holy, holy, 
 
^I|0rt ^taxlts of tlj? %mttB 91 
 
 holy, Lord God Almighty," "Thou art 
 gone to the grave, but we will not de- 
 plore Thee," and others: among which 
 we pause to mention briefly that ever 
 delightful Christmas hymn, *' Brightest 
 and best of the sons of the morning." 
 In some hymn books this hymn begins 
 "Hail the blest morn when the great 
 Mediator," but in the greater number 
 of the books it stands as above — 
 
 "Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, 
 Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid; 
 
 Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
 Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid. 
 
 Cold on His cradle the dew drops are shining, 
 Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall. 
 
 Angels adore Him, in slumbers reclining. 
 Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all. 
 
 Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, 
 Odors of Edom and offerings divine. 
 
 Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the Ocean, 
 Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine? 
 
Vainly we offer each ample oblation, 
 
 Vainly with gifts would His favor secure; 
 
 Richer by far is the heart's adoration, 
 
 Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor." 
 
 When or why the first stanza of this 
 hymn was changed, the writer has been 
 unable to discover: but whether sung in 
 the old way or the new, it is in every 
 regard one of our choicest Christmas 
 hymns. 
 
 And now we come to the story of the 
 composition of "From Greenland's icy 
 mountains." For many years before he 
 himself went to India, Heber was an 
 enthusiast on the subject of missions. 
 In 1819, four years before he went out 
 amongst the heathen to preach the 
 gospel, a letter was sent forth by the 
 king, authorizing an offering to be taken 
 in every church and chapel in England, 
 connected with the Church of England, 
 for missions. On the evening of Whit- 
 
^l|ort BtoruB 0f tij? %mna 93 
 
 Sunday, which was the day appointed 
 for this purpose, Heber had engaged to 
 dehver the first of a series of evening 
 lectures in the church at Wrexham, 
 which was in charge of his father-in-law, 
 the Rev. Dr. Shipley. On the Saturday 
 previous, as they were seated around 
 the table at the parsonage, Dr. Shipley 
 requested his son-in-law to write some- 
 thing for them to sing in the morning, 
 suitable to the missionary service. Heber 
 at once retired from the little circle, 
 and withdrew to a corner of the room. 
 After a while Dr. Shipley asked, 
 "What have you written.'^" Heber then 
 read the first three stanzas of that mag- 
 nificent hymn which he had so quickly 
 written : 
 
 "From Greenland's icy mountains, 
 From India's coral strand, 
 Where Afric's sunny fountains 
 Roll down their golden sand; 
 
94 S'liort Btuma of tlf? il|gmtta 
 
 From many an ancient river. 
 
 From many a palmy plain. 
 They call us to deliver 
 
 Their land from error's chain. 
 
 What though the spicy breezes 
 
 Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle, 
 Though every prospect pleases, 
 
 And only man is vile; 
 In vain with lavish kindness 
 
 The gifts of God are strewn; 
 The heathen in his blindness 
 
 Bows down to wood and stone. 
 
 Can we, whose souls are lighted 
 
 With wisdom from on high — 
 Can we to men benighted 
 
 The lamp of life deny.'* 
 Salvation! O Salvation! 
 
 The joyful sound proclaim, 
 Till each remotest nation 
 
 Has learned Messiah's name!'* 
 
 "There, there!" joyfully and triumph- 
 
^i|0rt BtatuB a{ tijp %mnB 95 
 
 antly exclaimed Dr. Shipley. "That 
 will do— that will do!" 
 
 "No, no," said Heber, "the sense is 
 not yet complete." 
 
 Taking the manuscript again in his 
 hand and retiring a second time to his 
 nook in the corner, in a few moments he 
 wrote that magnificent fourth stanza, 
 
 "Waft, waft, ye winds, His story. 
 
 And you, ye waters, roll, 
 Till like a sea of glory 
 
 It spreads from pole to pole; 
 Till o'er our ransomed nature 
 
 The Lamb for sinners slain. 
 Redeemer, King, Creator, 
 
 In bliss returns to reign. " 
 
 The next morning, in the church at 
 Wrexham, this great missionary hymn 
 was sung for the first time and it was 
 not long before it was adopted all over 
 the world, and it will never cease to be 
 sung so long as there is a single heathen 
 
96 ^lyort ^tortfB nf t\^t %mttH 
 
 to be converted. Like many of our 
 finest hymns, it was born on the instant, 
 coming by a sudden flash-Hke inspiration; 
 and the original copy still shows that it 
 was so accurately written that the poet 
 afterward changed but a single word. 
 Let it be remembered , when we sing 
 this hymn, that the author of it died a 
 missionary among the heathen in India. 
 
^I|ort Btama ttf t^t l|am«a 97 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "Just as I am, without One Plea." 
 
 A faithful pastor of a small flock once 
 met one of the young ladies of his con- 
 gregation on the street, as she was on 
 the way to her dressmaker to have a 
 dress made for a ball. Stopping her, 
 he frankly asked her mission and she 
 frankly told him. "I wish," said he, 
 *'you were a Christian woman; that you 
 would forsake all these frivolities, and 
 learn to live nearer to God. Won't you 
 stay away from this ball, if for nothing 
 else, because I ask it?" She replied, 
 *'I wish you would mind your own 
 business, sir. Good day." The young 
 lady went to the ball and danced all 
 night. She went home, and when her 
 head was at rest upon her pillow, con- 
 
98 ^Iinrt ^tnrt^B of t\^t %mtt0 
 
 science began to do its work. She 
 thought how she had insulted her pastor, 
 the best friend she had, perhaps, in all 
 the world. The torment of conscience 
 was kept up for three days until she 
 could endure it no longer. Going to her 
 pastor's study, she told him how sorry 
 she was that she had said words that had 
 caused his heart to ache. *'I have been 
 the most miserable girl in the world for 
 the past three days," she said, "and now 
 I want to become a Christian. I want 
 to be saved. Oh! what must I do to be 
 saved .f^" The old pastor, with his heart 
 full of compassion and sympathy and 
 love for the contrite spirit before him, 
 pointed her to the Lamb of God, and told 
 her how she must give herself to God 
 just as she was. "What! just as I am, 
 and I one of the most sinful creatures in 
 the world? You surely do not mean to 
 say that God will accept me just as I 
 
^Ijon Btaxv^B of % ^^ttmB 99 
 
 am?" *'I mean just that," was the 
 pastor's reply; "God wants you to come 
 to Him just as you are." The young 
 lady went home, and retiring to her 
 room, knelt beside her bed and prayed 
 God to take her just as she was. (Reach- 
 ing to a chair that stood by the bed, she 
 took a piece of paper and a pencil that 
 were there, and under these holy influen- 
 ces wrote the verses of that hymn so 
 dear to the heart of every Christian: 
 
 "Just as I am, without one plea, 
 But that Thy blood was shed for me, 
 And that Thou bid'st me come to Thee, 
 O Lamb of God, I come! 
 
 Just as I am, and waiting not 
 To rid my soul of one dark blot. 
 To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
 Just as I am, though tossed about 
 With many a conflict, many a doubt. 
 
100 ^Ijnrt BtantB of tl^t %mttfi 
 
 With fears within and foes without, 
 O Lamb of God, I come! 
 
 Just as I am! Thy love unknown 
 Has broken every barrier down; 
 Now, to be Thine, yea. Thine alone, 
 O Lamb of God, I come! 
 
 The lady was Miss Charlotte Elliot. 
 The poem wa§_written in 183 4. 
 
 The Hymn, "Stand up, Stand up for 
 Jesus. " 
 
 It is to be regretted that we know so 
 little of the circumstances under which 
 many of our hymns were written. In 
 many instances, unfortunately, all that 
 can be ascertained is the author's name 
 and the date of the composition. It 
 would certainly add much to our interest 
 in and our intelligent use of very many 
 of the hymns if there had been preserved 
 
^\)tiVt BtOt'UB of tl|? IfgmttB 101 
 
 for us some particular account of the con- 
 ditions and circumstances under which 
 they were first given to the Church. 
 
 We are thankful that it has happened 
 differently with the hymn we are pres- 
 ently considering — "Stand up, stand up 
 for Jesus. " It was written in the year 
 1858, bj^ the Rev. George Duffield, Jr., 
 a Presbyterian minister in Philadelphia; 
 and we are fortunate in having preserved 
 to us a well authenticated account of the 
 origin of this deservedly popular hymn, 
 written for "The Sunday School Times," 
 some years ago, by the Rev. Samuel 
 Duffield, the son of the composer. The 
 article says: 
 
 "The hymn, 'Stand up, stand up for 
 Jesus,' has had such a history, and has 
 been so honored of the Lord in the work 
 of the Church, that these facts absolve 
 me from any feeling of delicacy in offer- 
 ing, for the first time, its complete 
 
102 #l|0rt ^0ma of tlj? fgmtw 
 
 history. Its author, my dear and hon- 
 ored father, could scarcely do more than 
 give the mere unadorned facts. I think 
 it is possible for me, in these columns, to 
 correct certain errors, and to add certain 
 elements of interest to the account. 
 And when I remember that the same 
 hand now pens these lines which once 
 copied that hymn for the printer, I feel 
 glad that it is permitted to me to tell 
 the story of the hymn. 
 
 "In the great revival of 1857-58, 
 Jayne's Hall, on Chestnut street, Philadel- 
 phia, was the largest room which could be 
 procured for the noon prayer-meeting. 
 In this some three thousand persons 
 were used to assemble, and there, one 
 day, I saw a distant, slight figure, rise, 
 and heard for a few moments a silvery 
 and resonant voice. It struck upon my 
 ear with a peculiar power, and I have 
 never forgotten the person nor the tone. 
 
Bi}tixi BtamB of tljt ^ttutH 103 
 
 That was the first and the only time 
 that I saw or heard Dudley Atkins 
 Tyng, rector of the Church of the Epiph- 
 any, Philadelphia. It was only a few 
 weeks, indeed as I recall it, it was only 
 but a few days after this, that we had 
 the news of his accident. It was in 
 1858. He had left his study, wearing 
 his study-gown, of silk and very strong, 
 and had gone to the farm, where a mule 
 was at work in a * horse-power ' which 
 drove a corn-sheller. Every Pennsyl- 
 vanian of those days knows the great 
 cogged wheels at the side of such a 
 machine, and the danger of being caught 
 in them. But Dudley Tyng, with 
 a natural and self -forgetful kindness, 
 reached over to pat the mule, and the 
 cogs dragged his sleeve, and then his 
 arm, into them. It was all over in a 
 flash . . . The injury (as I have always 
 understood) was met by amputation; 
 
104 §>\}avt BtontSi of t\)t l|gmna 
 
 then by another, then by a third at the 
 shoulder, but all to no effect. The sin- 
 ews and muscles had been too deeply 
 involved, and the man died. He was a 
 member of the Young Men's Christian 
 Association, of which Mr. George H. 
 Stuart was then president. So also was 
 I a member, with other boys and lads 
 of my age. To us he sent the stirring 
 message: 'Tell them to stand up for 
 Jesus.' 
 
 " I need not say how wide was the lam- 
 entation, nor how his sermon on Exodus 
 10: 11 — *'Go now, ye that are men, and 
 serve the Lord," preached to a great 
 audience on the Sunday before his death, 
 was recalled by many. On the Sunday 
 succeeding his death, my father, the 
 Rev. George Duffield, Jr., who was 
 the pastor of the Central Presbyterian 
 Church, Northern Liberties, at Fourth 
 and Coates streets, and who had been a 
 
^I|0rt hiatus of tljf %mttB 105 
 
 close and warm friend of Mr. Tyng, 
 preached a sermon from the text, Ephesi- 
 ans 6: 14 — "Stand, therefore, having 
 your loins girt about with truth, and 
 having on the breastplate of righteous- 
 ness." At its conclusion he read the 
 hymn, which he had written by way of 
 peroration. Mr. Benedict D. Stewart, 
 at that time superintendent of the Sun- 
 day School, requested a copy for publi- 
 cation. This I made, by my father's 
 direction, in a rude, boyish, scrawl, and 
 carried it to the printing-office of a Mr. 
 Thompson, who was a member of the 
 Coates street church, and whose place 
 of business was, I think, in the historic 
 building on the corner of Sixth and 
 Market streets. There were a number 
 of the leaflets printed. I remember 
 just how they looked and I would give 
 a good deal to get one now as my own. 
 "The hymn had six stanzas. It was 
 
106 ^Ijnrt BtamB nf % IfgrnttB 
 
 first copied into the columns of a Baptist 
 paper. Shortly afterward it found its 
 way into the hymnal of the Presbyterian 
 Church and gradually into the hymnals 
 of all the churches. It has been trans- 
 lated into several other languages, in- 
 cluding the Latin. The latest render- 
 ing now lies before me, written with a 
 brush, Chinese characters. It is a ver- 
 sion of three stanzas by the Rev. W. J. 
 McKee, of Ning-po. 
 
 "My father went to the barn-floor 
 shortly after the accident, saw the place 
 and heard the story from an eye-witness. 
 It was on his return that he composed 
 the hymn." 
 
Bl\avt BtamB of % %m«B 107 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 It is not often that a good and lasting 
 hymn is written with intention and de- 
 sign. Very generally the best hymns 
 have come, as it were, suddenly and un- 
 accountably, as if by a divine inspira- 
 tion, and very often their authors neither 
 anticipated nor could account for their 
 subsequent popularity. To this general 
 rule, however, there have been some 
 notable and conspicuous exceptions. The 
 grand old missionary hymn, "From 
 Greenland's icy mountains," for in- 
 stance, was, as we have seen, written by 
 request. And the same is true also 
 of that stirring Processional hymn, 
 **Onward, Christian Soldiers." This, 
 strange as it may seem, was written to 
 order. Its author, the Rev. S. Baring 
 
108 #l|0rt ^iBmB at tli? %mtta 
 
 Gould, an English clergyman, himself 
 tells us that "It was written in very 
 simple fashion, and without a thought 
 of publication. Whit-Monday being a 
 great day in Yorkshire for school festivi- 
 ties, it was arranged, on the anniversary 
 of 1865, that our school should unite 
 with that of a neighboring village, and 
 wishing them to sing as they marched 
 along, I vainly tried to find something 
 suitable for the purpose. At length I 
 resolved to write something myself, 
 the result being * Onward, Christian 
 Soldiers.* It was hurriedly composed 
 and had some faulty rhymes, and cer- 
 tainly nothing has so much surprised 
 me as its popularity." 
 
 There is a hymn, or Christian song, 
 entitled "Shining Shore," which, though 
 falling somewhat short of any high hym- 
 nological standard, has yet been greatly 
 
^l|0rt Btar'xBa at ttyr ifgrntta 109 
 
 blessed in the experience of God's people 
 for many years past — 
 
 "My days are gliding swiftly by, 
 
 And I, a pilgrim stranger. 
 Would not detain them as they fly. 
 
 Those hours of toil and danger. 
 For, Oh, we stand on Jordan's strand, 
 
 Our friends are passing over, 
 And just before the shining shore 
 
 We may almost discover. " 
 
 Perhaps the music to which these 
 words were set and have always since 
 been sung have had quite as much to do 
 with the popularity of the song as the 
 words themselves. 
 
 As for the words — they were written 
 by David Nelson, born in Tennessee, 
 1793; a physician, an army surgeon in 
 the war of 1812; professed religion, be- 
 came an infidel; repented of his infidelity 
 and became a Christian again; became a 
 minister; preached in Tennessee and 
 
110 ^l|0rt 0t0rt?B nf tl|0 %mtia 
 
 Kentucky; founded Marion College in 
 Missouri, 1830, of which he was the 
 president. He strongly favored emanci- 
 pation, and that brought him into so 
 much trouble that he removed to Illi- 
 nois, where he died 1844. 
 
 He had a charming voice, it is said, 
 and used it with great effect, thus an- 
 ticipating the singing evangelist of a 
 later day. He was so much interested 
 in the colonization of the negro that he 
 frequently got into trouble. On one oc- 
 casion, at the close of the meeting, he 
 asked all who wished to remain so to do 
 and discuss the negro problem of his day 
 with him. Quite a number tarried and 
 disorder followed, as a matter of course. 
 How could it be otherwise in those days 
 of hot blood? Nelson was driven from 
 his home, he had to flee for his life. 
 After long wandering, he reached the 
 Mississippi river and concealed himself 
 
Bl^ott ^tama of tl|? Ifymtts 111 
 
 in the shrubbery on its banks, at a point 
 where passengers were conveyed to the 
 opposite shore. As he lay there with 
 hungry eyes watching them so easily 
 passing over to the landing which he 
 could ''almost discover," he took out 
 an envelope from his pocket and there 
 wrote this song of the Christian's long- 
 ing for a safe and blessed passage to the 
 "Shining Shore." 
 
 But the words without the music 
 would probably have been lost or over- 
 looked. However, a directing provi- 
 dence took care that they should be 
 wedded to suitable strains of stirring and 
 inspiring song. They were like a seed 
 thrown broadcast and at hazard, which, 
 finding a favorable soil, springs up and 
 grows into a noble tree. 
 
 It is queer how such things come 
 about. Massachusetts is a good way 
 from Missouri, but one day, George F. 
 
112 ^l|0rt Btamn of % %mtt0 
 
 Root, a musical composer, was at the 
 home of his parents at Willow Farm in 
 that New England state, for there the 
 scattered children gathered every sum- 
 mer from far and wide. 
 
 *'I was at some work at some songs, 
 one morning," the composer afterward 
 said, "when my mother, passing through 
 the room where I was at work, laid a 
 slip from a religious paper before me, 
 saying, 'George, I think that would be 
 good for music' As I looked at the 
 poem beginning, *My days are gliding 
 swiftly by,' a simple melody sang itself 
 into my mind. I jotted it down and 
 went on with my work. Later when I 
 took it up to harmonize it, the tune 
 seemed so commonplace that I hesitated, 
 but finally deciding that it might be use- 
 ful to somebody, I completed it. When 
 in after years it was sung in all the 
 churches and Sunday Schools in the land, 
 
Original Score of Hymn by Lewis H. Redner 
 
 
 IX — . -^ % J — r* V-^^ ~T~~ 
 
 
 y^^ ^oCb c^ '^j^ -^'^ ^ 
 
 Dr Philips Brooks wrote the famous hymn, "O, Little Town of 
 Bethlehem," and at his request Mr. Redner set it to music. 
 
01|0rt ^tflrt^B of % %m«B 113 
 
 and in every tongue where missions were 
 established, thus demonstrating that it 
 had the mysterious thing called vitality, 
 I tried to see why it should be so, but 
 in vain." 
 
 Of course; for man seeth not as God 
 seeth. 
 
 Speaking, now, of the singular provi- 
 dence of God, who thus caused an in- 
 spiration of a sacred song to be given in 
 one part of the world and its melody in 
 another part far away, we recall what we 
 have read about that favorite Christmas 
 hymn — 
 
 "O little town of Bethlehem! 
 
 How still we see thee lie: 
 Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 
 
 The silent stars go by; 
 Yet in thy dark streets shineth 
 
 The everlasting Light; 
 The hopes and fears of all the years 
 
 Are met in thee tonight. " 
 
114 ^l|ort ^0ma of % %mtta 
 
 As is well known, it was written by 
 Phillips Brooks, at that time the Rector 
 of Holy Trinity Church, Philadelphia. 
 Dr. Brooks received his inspiration for 
 this Christmas carol one evening in 
 Christmas week in 1865. He was travel- 
 ing in the Holy Land and on this evening 
 was riding on the historic plain of 
 Bethlehem from which the shepherds 
 beheld the star. The inspiration was 
 there given, although the words were 
 not written until a year later. The cir- 
 cumstances in which they were set to 
 music are related by Mr. L. H. Redner, 
 who at the time was the organist of 
 Holy Trinity, the superintendent of the 
 Sunday School, and a teacher of one of 
 the classes. 
 
 "As Christmas of 1868 approached," 
 Mr. Redner said, "Mr. Brooks told me 
 that he had written a simple little carol 
 for the Christmas Sunday School service. 
 
^l|0rt Bt(ir\tB 0f % %mnH 115 
 
 and he asked me to write the tune to it. 
 The simple music was written in great 
 haste and under great pressure. We 
 were to practice it on the following 
 Sunday. Mr. Brooks came to me on 
 Friday and said, 'Redner, have you 
 ground out that music yet to 'O little 
 town of Bethlehem?' I replied that I 
 had not, but that he should have it by 
 Sunday. On the Saturday night pre- 
 vious my brain was all confused about 
 the tune. I thought more about the 
 Sunday School lesson than I did about 
 the music. But I was roused from 
 sleep late in the night hearing an angel- 
 strain whispering in my ear and seizing 
 a piece of music-paper, I jotted down 
 the treble of the tune as we now have it, 
 and on Sunday morning, before going to 
 church, I filled in the harmony. Neither 
 Mr. Brooks nor I thought the carol or 
 
116 ^I|ort ^tatxsB of % %m«a 
 
 the music to it would live beyond the 
 Christmas of 1868. 
 
 *'My recollection is that Richard Mc- 
 Cauley, who then had a book store on 
 Chestnut street, west of Thirteenth, 
 printed it on leaflets for sale. The Rev. 
 Dr. Huntington, the Rector of All 
 Saints Church, Worcester, Mass., asked 
 permission to print it in his Sunday 
 School hymn and tune book, entitled 
 "The Church Porch," and it was he 
 who christened the music, "Saint Louis." 
 
Bi^att ^tort^a of % %mttfi 117 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 What strange contradictions, what 
 veritable ironies there are in this myste- 
 rious Hfe of ours. Here is the hymn or 
 song — call it what you please — *'Home, 
 Sweet Home." The author was John 
 Howard Payne, an American dramatist 
 and actor, born in New York, 1792, died 
 at Tunis, Africa, 1852. He had no 
 home of his own and died in a foreign 
 land, being U. S. Consul to Tunis. 
 There his body was buried and for 
 many long years lay in a grave unmarked 
 by a tombstone. '*How often," said he, 
 "have I been in the heart of Paris, Ber- 
 lin or London or some other city, and 
 heard persons playing or singing 'Home, 
 Sweet Home,' without a shilling to buy 
 the next meal or a place to lay my head. 
 
118 Bl^ott ^toma of tlj? %m«H 
 
 The world has sung my song till every 
 heart is familiar with its melody, yet I 
 have been a poor wanderer from my 
 boyhood. My country has turned me 
 from office, and in old age I have to sub- 
 mit to humiliation for my daily bread." 
 And yet, before he died he had one high 
 and memorable tribute paid to him, as 
 the following will show: 
 
 The First Singing of ''Home, Sweet 
 Home. " 
 
 Perhaps the most thrilling quarter of 
 an hour of John Howard Payne's life was 
 that when Jenny Lind sang "Home, 
 Sweet Home" to him. The occasion 
 was the Jenny Lind concert in Washing- 
 ton, the night of December 17, 1850. 
 The assembly was, perhaps, the most dis- 
 tinguished ever seen in this country. 
 The immense National Hall, hastily 
 constructed for the occasion on the 
 
^Ij0rt Btama of % %mn0 119 
 
 ruins of the burned National Theatre, 
 was filled to overflowing. Among the 
 notables present and occupying front 
 seats were President Fillmore, Daniel 
 Webster, Henry Clay, General Scott 
 and John Howard Payne. 
 
 Jenny Lind opened with the "Casta 
 Diva," and followed with the ''Flute 
 Song" (in which her voice contested 
 rivalry for purity and sweetness with a 
 flute in the duet), then the famous 
 "Bird Song" and next on her programme 
 the "Greeting to America." All the 
 selections were applauded apparently to 
 the full capacity of an enthusiastic audi- 
 ence and Mr. Webster, who was in his 
 most genial after-dinner mood, empha- 
 sized the plaudit by rising from his seat 
 and making Jenny a profound bow, as if 
 responding for the country to her 
 "Greeting." But when the "Swedish 
 Nightingale" answered the encore by 
 
turning in the direction of John Howard 
 Payne and giving "Home, Sweet Home," 
 with all the wonderful tenderness, purity 
 and simplicity fitting both the words 
 and the air of the immortal song, the 
 difference was at once seen between the 
 mechanical applause called out by a 
 display of fine vocalization and that 
 elicited by the "touch of nature that 
 makes the whole world kin." Before 
 the first line of the song was completed, 
 the audience was fairly off its feet and 
 could scarcely wait for a pause to give 
 expression to its enthusiasm. People 
 ordinarily of the undemonstrative sort 
 clapped, stamped and shouted as if they 
 were mad, and it seemed as if there would 
 be no end to the uproar. Meantime all 
 eyes were turned upon Payne, a small- 
 sized, elegantly -molded, gray-haired gen- 
 tleman, who blushed violently at finding 
 himself the center of so many glances. 
 
w 
 
 V rt 
 
 ^l|0rt ^tarwB at tly^ %mnfi 121 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Something about "The Star Spangled 
 Banner. " 
 
 Inquiries having been made in the 
 cohimns of the Philadelphia "Evening 
 Bulletin," from which the following is 
 quoted, Katherine Durang Fisher says: 
 
 "I would like to tell the story as my 
 dear father, the late Charles Durang, 
 told my sisters and myself. He and 
 his brother, Ferdinand Durang, both 
 well-known actors in their day, at the 
 time of the attack of Fort McHenry 
 were serving a ten day engagement there. 
 That was on September 14, 1814, and 
 both were then about twenty years old. 
 When the poet, Francis Scott Key, came 
 in, he held a piece of paper in his hand 
 and caUing to my father and uncle to 
 
122 Effort ^tort^B of % %ttm0 
 
 listen, he read the original poem of 'The 
 Star Spangled Banner' to them. My 
 father and uncle were so much interested 
 that they took the verses and hummed 
 several airs to them, in their endeavor to 
 adapt the words to music. Then my 
 uncle, Ferdinand, suddenly exclaimed, 
 *I have it!' and hummed the words to 
 the music of 'Anacreon in Heaven,' a 
 well-known hymn that was then widely 
 sung. Then the brothers Durang mounted 
 a chair in Fort McHenry and sang the 
 song until the whole garrison .joined in. 
 Later they sang the anthem again in the 
 old HoUiday Street Theatre and the 
 whole audience, in which was Francis 
 Scott Key, also sang with the actors.*' 
 
#Ijnrt ^tort^a nf tl|f Ifymtta 123 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 "Closing Hymns." 
 
 The hymns which we sing in the even- 
 ing, particularly those with which the 
 evening service of the Lord's day is con- 
 cluded, seem always to possess a peculiar 
 charm and power. And this seems to 
 be the case because, to every thought- 
 ful mind and reverent heart, the close of 
 the day is, perhaps, more than any 
 other time, the natural hour for calm 
 thought and reverent devotion. Even- 
 ing is the season of rest, of reflection, 
 of quiet meditation. Then the day's 
 work is done; its harrowing cares are 
 over. Darkness comes over the face of 
 the earth, the stars come out in the sky 
 and both mind and heart, as by an ir- 
 resistible impulse, run up toward God, 
 
the creator of all, while feelings of 
 gratitude for past mercies possess the 
 soul, and thoughts come into the mind 
 of the approach of that night which, 
 sooner or later, must envelope us all in 
 its impenetrable gloom and that great 
 and endless day of God which shall 
 know no setting sun. 
 
 The evening of the Lord's day is, in 
 a double sense, a time well suited for de- 
 votional purposes and the hymns which 
 we then sing should be, as we believe 
 they for the most part are, sung heartily. 
 The evening hymns we are accustomed 
 to sing in church — ^how sweet they are! 
 How they seem to give expression to 
 our otherwise pent-up and voiceless feel- 
 ings of adoration and praise to our 
 Heavenly Father! Then, if at any time 
 during the Lord's day, we should join 
 heartily, earnestly and prayerfully in the 
 sacred songs of Zion. 
 
Have you never noticed what a power 
 the last hymn of a worshipping congre- 
 gation has over both mind and heart? 
 If it be an appropriate evening hymn, 
 and is sung to some well-known melody — 
 how it lingers about one for days after- 
 ward! You find yourself humming it, 
 perhaps audibly, perhaps only inwardly, 
 "making melody in your heart unto the 
 Lord," while you are walking home 
 from church. If you live in the country 
 and have several miles to drive home in 
 your carriage, as you roll along under 
 the light of the full moon or through the 
 gloomy forest, you find yourself or your 
 wife or children breaking out involun- 
 tarily in the strains still floating in your 
 mind and memory, as if wafted from God's 
 assembled people. You will find that 
 same parting song of Zion following you 
 during the week with its sacred melody, 
 as a breath from heaven. The wife at 
 
126 Bl^avt ^t0ma nf tl^t %mttH 
 
 her work in the house hums it, the 
 husband whistles it as he shoves his 
 plane or follows his plow, while, when 
 silent, the sacred echo of the song is 
 heard far back in the mind or deep down 
 in the heart. 
 
 Whoever writes a good evening hymn 
 confers a great blessing on God's people 
 throughout the world. Difficult as is 
 the composition of a true hymn of any 
 kind, the preparation of a good closing, 
 evening hymn seems to be particularly 
 a matter of rare accomplishment. We 
 have, as you may have perchance al- 
 ready observed, very few good hymns 
 suitable to the close of the Lord's day, 
 as will be found on consulting any hymn 
 book. We propose to call attention to 
 a few of the best. 
 
 We have already noticed the classic 
 composition — "Abide with me: fast 
 falls the eventide" — which is indeed an 
 
#ljort Btamsi nf % %mttB 127 
 
 evensong of most surpassing beauty. 
 Then, there is the good old hymn, "I 
 love to steal a while away," which has 
 been in use among Christian people of 
 all denominations for nearly a century. 
 Of this hymn it is related that it was 
 written in answer to the fault-finding of 
 a meddlesome gossip. It was written 
 by Mrs. Phoebe H. Brown, who lived 
 near the village of EUington in Connec- 
 ticut, and it was first published in the 
 year 1824. Mrs. Brown was, at the 
 time of the composition of this hymn, 
 a care-worn mother of a large family of 
 children. It was her custom every 
 evening, when the weather permitted, 
 to set her house in order about the hour 
 of sunset, and, leaving the children alone 
 at home, to go out by a well worn path 
 to a quiet and secluded spot by a neigh- 
 boring mountain stream and there hold 
 sweet communion with God beneath 
 
128 ^I|nrt Btama at % %mna 
 
 the overarching trees. There she was 
 wont to pour forth her soul in suppHca- 
 tion for her children, herself and her 
 friends; to tell over her sorrows and 
 trials, and seek grace and strength suf- 
 ficient unto her need. One summer 
 evening on her return home from her 
 leafy closet, she learned that a neighbor 
 woman, a great gossip, had been for 
 some time watching her and had been 
 sharply criticising her apparent neglect 
 of her family. Deeply pained at this, 
 she sat down and wrote an apology for 
 her conduct, in the form of a poem which 
 was soon adopted as a hymn: 
 
 "I love to steal a while away 
 From every cumb'ring care. 
 And spend the hours of setting day 
 In humble, grateful prayer. 
 
 I love in solitude to shed 
 The penitential tear. 
 
#ljort BtBXxtB of t\}t llymwa 129 
 
 And all His promises to plead, 
 Where none but God can hear. 
 
 I love to think on mercies past, 
 And future good implore, 
 
 And all my cares and sorrows cast 
 On Him whom I adore. 
 
 Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er, 
 
 May its departing ray 
 Be calm as this impressive hour. 
 
 And lead to endless day. " 
 
 This she entitled "An apology for my 
 twilight rambles," and addressed it to 
 her lady critic, who, let us hope, was 
 profited as well as reproved. One of 
 the little ones for whom this Christian 
 mother prayed in her leafy seclusion by 
 the brook-side was the Rev. Samuel R. 
 Brown, D. D., who was for many years 
 an efficient missionary in Japan. It 
 may also be interesting to know that the 
 
130 #l|0rt ^tavuB at tl^e %mttH 
 
 author of this hymn had been in early 
 youth a servant girl; her life, from nine 
 to eighteen being spent in poverty and 
 slavish drudgery. She never went to 
 school, seldom got to church and learned 
 to write after she was married. She 
 was one of the many persons whose 
 lives have so forcibly illustrated the 
 truth that it often pleases God to use 
 the humblest instruments to accomplish 
 His purposes, and that "Out of the mouth 
 of babes and sucklings He has perfected 
 praise." 
 
 In very striking contrast with the 
 lowly origin of the above hymn, we may 
 mention that masterpiece of evensong, 
 "Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear." 
 Scarcely ever can one join with God's 
 people in the use of this hymn without 
 feeling himself brought into close fellow- 
 ship with the most gentle and loving 
 spirit of its renowned author, as well as 
 
^Ijnrt ^tortea of % %mtt0 131 
 
 being lifted up into an atmosphere of 
 sweetest communion with our blessed 
 Lord and Saviour. There is something 
 so exquisitely tender in this sacred song 
 — it brings Christ so near — that we feel 
 quite certain, even before we know any- 
 thing of its author, that it must have 
 been written by a man not only of the 
 finest scholarship, but also of the deep- 
 est piety. In this our natural expecta- 
 tion we are not disappointed. The 
 author of this hymn, the Rev. John 
 Keble, was indeed a man of the high- 
 est scholarly attainments, ennobled and 
 purified by the power of Christian faith 
 to a rare degree. If ever "sweetness 
 and light" were harmoniously blended 
 in the character and life of any man in 
 this poor world of ours, John Keble was 
 that man. In the absence of all in- 
 formation as to the immediate circum- 
 stances which gave rise to the hymn we 
 have in hand, it will be at least interest- 
 
ing to our readers to know something of 
 its author. 
 
 John Keble was born on St. Mark's 
 day, April 25, 1792, at Fairford, Glou- 
 cestershire, England. His father was 
 rector of the church in this village dur- 
 ing a period of fifty years. Himself a 
 good scholar, the elder Keble did not 
 send his son away to school while very 
 young, but conducted his early educa- 
 tion himself, and he did his work so well 
 that his son John was elected a scholar 
 in Corpus Christi College, Oxford, at the 
 unusually early age of fifteen. He ob- 
 tained a fellowship in Oriel College in his 
 nineteenth year, and the year previous 
 to this he received double first class 
 honors, a distinction which had been ob- 
 tained only once before in the history of 
 the university, and then by Sir Robert 
 Peel. He also gained the university 
 prizes, and "achieved the highest honors 
 of the university at an age when others 
 
#l|ort Btav'UB of tl\t IfymttB 133 
 
 were frequently but on the threshold." 
 During his days at Oriel College he 
 had for his fellow students some whose 
 names became subsequently widely known 
 throughout all Christendom; for the 
 college, at the time when Keble entered 
 it, was the center of all the finest 
 ability in Oxford. Sir John Taylor 
 Coleridge had been his fellow-scholar 
 at Corpus Christi and at Oriel he was 
 surrounded with such men as Copleston, 
 Davison, Whateley, Arnold (of Rugby 
 fame), Pusey and Newman. Not only 
 in point of scholarship was he disting- 
 uished amongst men such as these — "he 
 was more remarkable for the rare beauty 
 of his character than even for his aca- 
 demic distinctions." Great purity of 
 spirit, sweetness of disposition, simpli- 
 city, humility, characterized him through- 
 out his college days and ever afterward. 
 When he entered on the pastoral work 
 
134 ^Ijort ^toma of % Ifgnttts 
 
 he was renowned for his great kindness 
 to the poor and for the unwearied in- 
 terest he took in the sick and unfortunate. 
 Late at night he would be seen, lantern 
 in hand, on his way to or from the home 
 of some poor, sick or sorrowing cottager. 
 There was in him not only great culture 
 of the mind, great illumination of the 
 intellect, — but also great culture of the 
 moral nature; not only "light," but also 
 "sweetness," without which all intel- 
 lectual light is, after all, only darkness 
 indeed. One feels this to a remarkable 
 degree in all of his writings. Whatever 
 may be said of his theological opinions, 
 there can be no doubt as to the great 
 piety of the man. His " Christian 
 Year," a volume of sacred song which 
 will be found in nearly every cultured 
 home, has had probably a wider circula- 
 tion than any other book of the last 
 century. Between 1827 and 1872 one 
 
#l|nrt Btama nf tly? Ifgmnja 135 
 
 hundred and jSfty editions were printed. 
 In all the sacred songs in this volume, 
 one feels the excellence to be this same 
 exquisite gentleness of touch, this same 
 deep, tender, saintly sweetness which so 
 attracted to him all with whom he came 
 in contact while he was yet alive. "The 
 real power of 'The Christian Year' lies 
 in this — that it brings home to the 
 reader as few poetic works have ever 
 done, a heart of rare and saintly beauty. 
 We may well believe that ages must 
 elapse ere another such character shall 
 again concur with a poetic gift and 
 power of expression which, if not of the 
 highest, are yet of a very high order." 
 All this the reader feels as he reads 
 this beautiful hymn. He feels that he 
 is here very close to the heart of a man 
 whose walk was close with God. Un- 
 bounded trustfulness in Christ — "the 
 perfect love which caste th out fear" — 
 
136 ^l|0rt 0tnm0 of i^t ^^mm 
 
 are felt to thrill the soul as the congre- 
 gation sings, ere it goes down from the 
 house of God at the eventide, while the 
 darkness of night is gathering around, 
 
 "Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear, 
 It is not night if Thou be near; 
 O may no earth-born cloud arise 
 
 To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes. 
 
 When the soft dews of kindly sleep 
 My wearied eyelids gently steep, 
 
 Be my last thoughts how sweet to rest 
 Forever on my Saviour's breast. 
 
 Abide with me from morn to eve, 
 For without Thee I cannot live; 
 
 Abide with me when night is nigh. 
 For without Thee I dare not die. " 
 
0I|flrt ^tcmfi of tlj0 llgmna 137 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 We come now, finally, to the chief of 
 all closing hymns, — the good old "Long 
 Meter" doxology, "Praise God from 
 whom all blessings flow. " For more than 
 two hundred years this single stanza 
 has probably been sung oftener and by 
 more people than any other composition 
 with which we are acquainted. It is 
 the chief of all the doxologies, and it is 
 not likely that it will soon be outworn, 
 or superseded by any other. It never 
 grows old. It never wearies. It is per- 
 ennially fresh and sweet. It is very in- 
 timately associated with the most sa- 
 cred scenes and hallowed memories of 
 the past. And it bids fair to be the 
 favorite closing hymn for all of God's 
 people to the end of time. Did you 
 
138 #I|nrt B>tortra of tij? %mttB 
 
 ever stop to consider who wrote this 
 dear old doxology, or to inquire how 
 long it has been in use? 
 
 It was written by Thomas Ken, a 
 Bishop of the English Church, about the 
 year 1697, that is more than two hundred 
 years ago. Now, if you ask who Thomas 
 Ken was, then let me ask you, do you 
 not remember having read in Macaulay's 
 History of England about seven English 
 Bishops who were once imprisoned in the 
 Tower of London and afterward brought 
 to trial for treason, because they had 
 refused to read in their several churches 
 the famous Declaration of Indulgence 
 to Roman Catholics, which King James 
 II had published? These seven men 
 were — the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 Llo3^d, Turner, Lake, Ken, White and 
 Trelawney. They refused to read the 
 King's declaration, not only because 
 they were opposed to Roman Catholicism, 
 
THOMAS KEN. 
 
^I|ort BtomB nf tljf %mttB 139 
 
 but especially because they felt that the 
 King, by his arbitrary action, was com- 
 promising the spiritual freedom of the 
 Church. After a long consultation they 
 drew up a paper in which, with every as- 
 surance of loyalty, they ventured polite- 
 ly to state their reasons for declining to 
 read the Declaration. This paper they 
 presented to the king on their knees. 
 On reading it King James flew into a 
 terrible rage, called them rebels, and 
 eventually ordered them to the Tower, 
 there to await their trial for treason. 
 The whole city of London was aroused 
 in behalf of the Bishops, who were re- 
 garded as martyrs for the common 
 cause. Followed by an immense crowd 
 of people who cheered loudly and re- 
 peatedly cried, "God bless you!" they 
 were with diflSculty conducted to the 
 Tower, where, before the gates closed 
 upon them, the very guards bared their 
 heads and craved their benediction and 
 
140 ^Ijort Btati^B nf tljp %mna 
 
 blessing. You may remember also how, 
 subsequently, they were brought to 
 trial and acquitted and how wild all the 
 country was over the good news. 
 
 Now, one of these was Thomas Ken, 
 at that time the Bishop of Bath and 
 Wells, and we have mentioned the above 
 circumstance partly in order to locate 
 the author of our good doxology his- 
 torically and partly to show what kind 
 of man he was. That he was a man 
 having in him the stuff of which martyrs 
 are made is evident not only from the 
 above narrated facts, but also from what 
 is elsewhere related as belonging to his 
 early history. In 1679 he had been ap- 
 pointed chaplain to the Princess Mary, 
 the wife of William of Orange, and for a 
 short time hved in Holland. In 1680 
 he returned to England and was made 
 chaplain to the King, Charles II. Hav- 
 ing his residence at Winchester, in 1683 
 
Bl\tirt BttivxsB at % ^^mm 141 
 
 the King and his court of fine people of 
 questionable morals once paid a visit to 
 Ken, and it had been arranged that his 
 house should be the abode of the famous 
 Nell Gwynn, the King's favorite. But 
 Ken at once objected to this arrange- 
 ment, refused admittance to her and 
 compelled her to look for lodgings else- 
 where. One would naturally think that 
 such an act would have been visited by 
 the king's certain and severe displeasure, 
 as no doubt Ken expected it would; but 
 strange to say, it indirectly led to his 
 promotion to the office of a Bishop. 
 For, only the next year after the above 
 occurrence, when there fell a vacancy 
 in the see of Bath and Wells, and differ- 
 ent names had been proposed for the 
 place. King Charles said one day, *' Where 
 is the good little man that refused his 
 lodging to poor Nell?" and resolved 
 
142 #l|nrt ^toma of tl|p l^gmtta 
 
 that he and no other should be Bishop 
 of Bath and Wells. 
 
 I have his picture before me as I 
 write — a smooth shaven face it is, high 
 forehead, strong chin, well-developed 
 nose and a very pleasant expression in 
 general. One only wonders why he 
 never married. But he was a bachelor, 
 — traveled considerably and always 
 carried his shroud in his valise with 
 him wherever he went, and whenever he 
 took seriously sick, he at once put it 
 on. This may well illustrate that part 
 of his celebrated evening hymn, where 
 it says: 
 
 "Teach me to live, that I may dread 
 The grave as little as my bed." 
 
 He is celebrated as one of the "non-jur- 
 ing bishops" who refused to take a new 
 oath when William of Orange came in — 
 an act which cost him his bishopric and 
 
Bl^nxt BtariSB nf % ffymtta 143 
 
 led to his retirement, in which the rest 
 of his days were spent. 
 
 But, good Bishop Ken will be best re- 
 membered to the end of all time, not 
 as one of the seven bishops once im- 
 prisoned in London Tower, nor as a 
 "non-juror," nor as a chaplain of King 
 Charles II., but as the author of the 
 noble song of praise to the King of 
 Kings and Lord of Lords, "Praise God 
 from whom all blessings flow." As one 
 of the fathers of modern English hym- 
 nology he has always held high rank. 
 Scarcely even Keble himself, though 
 possessed of much rarer poetic gifts, 
 surpassed him in his own sphere. He 
 wrote a volume of prayers for the use of 
 the scholars of Winchester College about 
 the year 1674. To this volume were 
 added three hymns of his composition — 
 one for the morning, one for the even- 
 ing and one for midnight. Of these, the 
 
144 ^tyurt ^tortw of tl^t %mnH 
 
 first two are household words where- 
 ever the EngHsh tongue is spoken. The 
 morning hymn is famiUar to all: 
 
 "Awake, my soul, and with the sun 
 Thy daily stage of duty run; 
 Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise 
 To pay thy morning sacrifice." 
 
 The evening hymn is equally well known : 
 
 " All praise to Thee, my God, this night, 
 For all the blessings of the light; 
 Keep me, O keep me, King of Kings, 
 Beneath Thine own almighty wings. 
 
 Forgive me. Lord, for Thy dear Son, 
 The ills which I this day have done; 
 That with the world, myself, and Thee, 
 I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 
 
 Teach me to live, that I may dread 
 The grave as little as my bed; 
 To die, that this vile body may 
 Rise glorious at the awful day. 
 
^\}iixt BtamB nf % llgtttttB 145 
 
 Oh, when shall I, in endless day, 
 Forever chase dark sleep away; 
 And praise with the angelic choir 
 Incessant sing, and never tire?" 
 
 This is indeed a very beautiful hymn, 
 and one endeared to us all by long use; 
 but as it was originally written, when 
 composed for the boys at Winchester 
 school, it contained just one more stanza 
 — and this last stanza was our long- 
 meter doxology, "Praise God from whom 
 all blessings flow." This last verse, in 
 course of time, became separated from 
 the rest of Ken's evening hymn and was 
 assigned to service as the leading dox- 
 ology in all churches the world over. 
 If Thomas Ken had never been chaplain 
 to the King, a bishop and a non- juror, 
 and had done nothing more in all his 
 life, save only the composition of this 
 
146 f^ljflrt ^t0ma at t\^t l|gmna 
 
 last verse of his evening hymn, his Hfe, 
 even so, would have been well spent and 
 a lasting source of blessing to all the 
 world. Pray, do not forget good Bishop 
 Ken when you sing 
 
 "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 
 Praise Him all creatures here below; 
 Praise Him above, ye Heavenly Host — 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. " 
 
B\\titt Btaxx^a cf tl|? %m«3 147 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 "O Mother dear, Jerusalem, 
 When shall I come to Thee? 
 When shall my sorrows have an end? 
 Thy joys when shall I see?" 
 
 In nearly every collection this hymn, 
 which in varied form has come down to 
 us from the earliest period of the Church, 
 will be found to have a well established 
 place. Ordinarily its authorship has 
 been attributed to David Dickson, who 
 was a Scotch Presbyterian minister, born 
 at Glasgow, 1583, became a Professor of 
 Divinity at Glasgow 1640, and later in 
 the University of Edinburgh. He was 
 deprived of his office at the Restoration 
 for refusing the Oath of Supremacy, and 
 died 1663. 
 
 In the opinion of scholars, however. 
 
148 ^'lyort BtxiviSB at % l|gmna 
 
 Dickson was not the author of this 
 beautiful hymn, but rather its very ex- 
 cellent translator. The hymn comes 
 from a very early period, just how early 
 no one can tell; for, from the day when 
 St. John on Patmos beheld "The Holy 
 City, new Jerusalem, coming down from 
 God out of Heaven," the blessed vision 
 of the Heavenly City continued ever 
 present to the faith and hope of the 
 Church. In the form in which we have 
 this hymn in our collections, it may be 
 well to note, it is but a very small por- 
 tion of a much more lengthy composition, 
 well known in the Middle Ages in the 
 Latin form. And it seems probable 
 that, in the form in which it was then 
 known, "it had received contributions 
 from various hands, additions which 
 were mostly translations from the 
 Fathers or from Mediaeval Latin hymns, 
 having been made by one author or 
 
i>ll0rt ^taxwB tti Hit %mttB 149 
 
 another at various times." The sim- 
 ilarity of both sentiment and expression 
 between certain parts of the hymns and 
 the writings of the Fathers, especially 
 St. Augustine and St. Gregory, would 
 seem to warrant the belief that "David 
 Dickson only put into shape, and polished 
 a little, the work of his devout predeces- 
 sors." The hymn is, therefore, a growth, 
 and embodying as it does the faith and 
 the hope of so many long ages, it com- 
 mends itself all the more from this cir- 
 cumstance, to the faith and the hope of 
 the Church of the present day. 
 
 As has been said, the hymn, as we have 
 it in our day, is only a small part of the 
 composition as it stood in the Middle 
 Ages, and as few of our readers have 
 ever, in all probability, had the privilege 
 of seeing it in its entirety, we take the 
 pleasure here to insert it as a whole. 
 
150 Bi^avt Btttma nf tij? Ifgmna 
 
 The New Jerusalem 
 I. 
 
 O Mother dear, Jerusalem! 
 
 When shall I come to thee? 
 When shall my sorrows have an end- 
 
 Thy joys when shall I see? 
 O happy harbor of God's saints! 
 
 O sweet and pleasant soil! 
 In thee no sorrows can be found, 
 
 No grief, no care, no toil. 
 
 II. 
 
 In thee no sickness is at all, 
 
 No hurt nor any sore; 
 There is no death nor ugly sight, 
 
 But life for evermore. 
 No dimmish clouds o'ershadow thee, 
 
 No cloud nor darksome night; 
 But every soul shines as the sun, 
 
 For God himself gives light. 
 
 III. 
 
 There lust nor lucre cannot dwell, 
 There envy bears no sway; 
 
i'licrt ^toma of tlj? I|amna 151 
 
 There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat, 
 
 But pleasure every way. 
 Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 
 
 Would God I were in thee! 
 Oh that my sorrows had an end, 
 
 Thy joys that I might see! 
 
 IV. 
 
 No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief, 
 
 No woful wight is there; 
 No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard — 
 
 No well-away, no fear. 
 Jerusalem the city is 
 
 Of God our King alone; 
 The Lamb of God the light thereof 
 
 Sits there upon His throne. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ah God! that I Jerusalem 
 
 With speed may go behold! 
 For why? the pleasures there abound 
 
 With tongue cannot be told. 
 Thy turrets and thy pinnacles, 
 
 With carbuncles do shine. 
 
152 ^lyort ^t0mB of % %mtta 
 
 With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite. 
 Surpassing pure and fine. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thy houses are of ivory, 
 
 Thy windows crystal clear, 
 Thy streets are laid with beaten gold — 
 
 There angels do appear. 
 Thy walls are made of precious stones, 
 
 Thy bulwarks diamond square. 
 Thy gates are made of Orient pearl — 
 
 O God, if I were there! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Within thy gates no thing can come 
 
 That is not passing clean; 
 No spider's web, no dirt, no dust. 
 
 No filth may there be seen. 
 Jehovah, Lord, now come away, 
 
 And end my grief and plaints; 
 Take me to Thy Jerusalem, 
 
 And place me with Thy saints, 
 
^I|0rt Btnt'ua af % ^^mm 153 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Who there are crowned with glory great. 
 
 And see God face to face; 
 They triumph still and aye rejoice — 
 
 Most happy is their case. 
 But we that are in banishment, 
 
 Continually do moan; 
 We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep — 
 
 Perpetually we groan. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Our sweetness mixed is with gall. 
 
 Our pleasure is but pain. 
 Our joys not worth the looking on — 
 
 Our sorrows aye remain. 
 But there they live in such delight. 
 
 Such pleasure and such play. 
 That unto them a thousand years 
 
 Seem but as yesterday. 
 
 X. 
 
 O my sweet home, Jerusalem! 
 Thy joys when shall I see? 
 Thy King sitting upon His throne, 
 
154 B'ljnrt #t0mj0 nf tl}t %mttB 
 
 And thy felicity? 
 Thy vineyards and thy orchards are 
 
 So wonderful and fair, 
 And furnished with trees and fruit. 
 
 Most beautiful and rare. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thy gardens and thy goodly walks, 
 
 Continually are green; 
 There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers, 
 
 As nowhere else are seen. 
 There cinnamon and sugar grow. 
 
 There nard and balm abound; 
 No tongue can tell, no heart can think. 
 
 The pleasures there are found. 
 
 XII. 
 
 There nectar and ambrosie spring — 
 
 There musk and civet sweet; 
 There many a fair and dainty drug 
 
 Are trod down under feet. 
 Quite through the streets, with pleasant sound, 
 
 The flood of life doth flow; 
 Upon the banks, on every side. 
 
 The trees of life do grow. 
 
^Ij0rt Btuvxm af 1I|? %m«0 155 
 
 XIII. 
 
 These trees each month yield ripened fruit- 
 
 For evermore they spring; 
 And all the nations of the world 
 
 To thee their honours bring. 
 Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place. 
 
 Full sore I long to see; 
 Oh that my sorrows had an end, 
 
 That I might dwell in thee! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 There David stands, with harp in hand, 
 
 As master of the queir; 
 A thousand times that man were blessed 
 
 That might his music hear. 
 There Mary sings Magnificat, 
 
 With tunes surpassing sweet; 
 And all the virgins bear their part. 
 
 Singing about her feet. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Te Deum doth St. Ambrose sing, 
 
 St. Austin doth the like; 
 Old Simeon and Zacharie 
 
156 ^l|0rt ^tnmB of tlje ^^mm 
 
 Have not their songs to seek. 
 
 There Magdalene hath left her moan, 
 And cheerfully doth sing, 
 
 With all blest saints whose harmony- 
 Through every street doth ring. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 
 
 Thy joys fain would I see; 
 Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief. 
 
 And take me home to Thee! 
 Oh print Thy name in my forehead, 
 
 And take me hence away. 
 That I may dwell with Thee in bliss, 
 
 And sing Thy praises aye! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Jerusalem, thrice happy seat! 
 
 Jehovah's throne on high! 
 O sacred city, queen and wife 
 
 Of Christ eternally! 
 O comely queen, with glory clad. 
 
 With honour and degree. 
 All fair thou art, exceeding bright — 
 
 No spot there is in thee. 
 
^lyort ^tort^B of tl|0 %mna 157 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I long to see Jerusalem, 
 
 The comfort of us all; 
 For thou art fair and beautiful — 
 
 None ill can thee befall. 
 In thee, Jerusalem, I say. 
 
 No darkness dare appear; 
 No night, no shade, no winter foul — 
 
 No time doth alter there. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 No candle needs, no moon to shine, 
 
 No glittering stars to light; 
 For Christ, the King of Righteousness, 
 
 There ever shineth bright. 
 The Lamb unspotted, white and pure, 
 
 To thee doth stand in lieu 
 Of light — so great the glory is 
 
 Thine heavenly King to view. 
 
 XX. 
 
 He is the King of kings, beset 
 
 In midst His servants' sight; 
 And they. His happy household all 
 
158 ^Ijort BtamB of % llgmna 
 
 Do serve Him day and night. 
 There, there the quier of angels sing; 
 
 There the supernal sort 
 Of citizens, which hence are rid 
 
 From dangers deep, do sport. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There be the prudent prophets all. 
 
 The apostles six and six, 
 The glorious martyrs in a row, 
 
 And confessors betwixt. 
 There doth the crew of righteous men 
 
 And matrons all consist; 
 Young men and maids that here on earth 
 
 Their pleasures did resist. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The sheep and lambs that hardly 'scaped 
 
 The snares of death and hell, 
 Triumph in joy eternally, 
 
 Whereof no tongue can tell; 
 And though the glory of each one 
 
 Doth differ in degree. 
 Yet is the joy of all alike 
 
 And common, as we see. 
 
Bl^att BtamB of % l|gmttB 159 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 There love and charity do reign, 
 
 And Christ is all in all, 
 Whom they most perfectly behold 
 
 In joy celestial. 
 They love, they praise — they praise, they love; 
 
 They "holy, holy," cry; 
 They neither toil, nor faint, nor end. 
 
 But laud continually. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 happy thousand times were I, 
 If, after wretched days, 
 
 1 might with listening ears conceive 
 Those heavenly songs of praise, 
 
 Which to the eternal King are sung 
 
 By happy wights above — 
 By saved souls and angels sweet, 
 
 Who love the God of Love! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Oh passing happy were my state. 
 
 Might I be worthy found 
 To wait upon my God and King, 
 
160 ^l|0rt ^tavltB tif tly^ l|gmnfi 
 
 His praises there to sound; 
 And to enjoy my Christ above, 
 
 His favour and His grace. 
 According to His promise made, 
 
 Which here I interlace. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "O Father dear," quoth He, "let them 
 
 Which Thou hast put of old 
 To me, be there where, lo, I am, 
 
 Thy glory to behold; 
 Which I with Thee before the world 
 
 Was made, in perfect wise, 
 Have had; from whence the fountain great 
 
 Of glory doth arise." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Again: "If any man will serve 
 
 Then let him follow me; 
 For where I am, be thou, right sure. 
 
 There shall my servant be." 
 And still: "If any man love me. 
 
 Him loves my Father dear; 
 Whom I do love, to him myself 
 
 In glory will appear." 
 
^I|ort ^tuntB of % %mttfl 161 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Lord, take away my misery, 
 
 That there I may behold 
 With Thee in Thy Jerusalem, 
 
 What here cannot be told. 
 And so in Zion see my King, 
 
 My Love, my Lord, my All; 
 Whom now as in a glass I see. 
 
 There face to face I shall. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Oh ! blessed are the pure in heart, 
 
 Their Sovereign they shall see; 
 And the most holy heavenly host, 
 
 Who of His household be! 
 O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands, 
 
 These gins and fetters strong; 
 For I have dwelt within the tents 
 
 Of Kedar overlong! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Yet search me. Lord, and find me out, 
 
 Fetch me Thy fold unto. 
 That all Thy angels may rejoice, 
 
162 ^Ijort BtaxxtB of tl\t %mtta 
 
 While all Thy will I do. 
 O mother dear, Jerusalem! 
 
 When shall I come to thee? 
 When shall my sorrows have an end- 
 
 Thy joys when shall I see? 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, 
 
 To quit me from all strife. 
 That to thine hill I may attain. 
 
 And dwell there all my life, 
 With cherubims and seraphims 
 
 And holy souls of men, 
 To sing Thy praise, O God of Hosts! 
 
 For ever, and Amen! 
 
^lynrj BtaxuB of % l|gtmta 163 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "The Celestial Country" 
 
 While speaking of hymns of aspira- 
 tion for the heavenly state, we naturally 
 recall certain other hymns which are to 
 be found in nearly if not quite every good 
 collection, such as — 
 
 "The world is very evil. 
 The times are waxing late" — 
 
 "Brief life is here our portion, 
 Brief sorrow, short-lived care" — 
 
 "For Thee, O dear, dear Country, 
 Mine eyes their vigils keep" — 
 
 "Jerusalem, the golden. 
 With milk and honey blest" — 
 
164 ^l|0rt ^tortf0 at ll|? %mnH 
 
 These, and some others of the same 
 tenor, will be found in nearly all the 
 hymn-books as accredited to John Mason 
 Neale, Translator. John Mason Neale 
 was born in London, 1818, graduated 
 Trinity College, Cambridge, 1840. He 
 was a prolific writer, especially of hymns 
 and translations of hymns, and made 
 the above translations from a very beau- 
 tiful Mediaeval Latin hymn known as 
 'The Celestial Country." It may be 
 of some interest to us to know that he 
 made his very worthy translation of this 
 splendid hymn "while inhibited from 
 his priestly functions in the Church of 
 England on account of his high ritual- 
 isitic views and practice. He was so 
 poor in consequence that he wrote 
 stories for children, and composed and 
 translated hymns for his living, but his 
 poverty was overruled to the enrich- 
 ment of all Christendom." 
 
#i|ort ^ttiv'WB of tl|0 %mttH 165 
 
 As in the case of the former hymn, 
 "O Mother dear, Jerusalem," so here: 
 these hymns above indicated are not to 
 be supposed to be the work of John 
 Mason Neale. He simply extracted 
 them and most intelligently and skill- 
 fully translated them from a very lengthy 
 but very beautiful Mediaeval Latin 
 hymn known as "The Celestial Coun- 
 try," dating to the middle of the twelfth 
 century. 
 
 The authorship of *'The Celestial 
 Country" is commonly by scholars ac- 
 credited to Bernard of Cluny. He was 
 of English parentage, though born at 
 Morlaix, a seaport town in the north of 
 France. The exact date of his birth is 
 not known; probably about 1100. He 
 lived the Monastic life at Cluny, and but 
 little is known of his history. He is not 
 to be confounded with his contemporary 
 
166 ^lj0rt B>t0ma of tl|p Ifgrnna 
 
 of the same name, Bernard of Clair- 
 vaux. 
 
 Bernard of Cluny lived at a time when 
 the Church was torn by conflicting 
 powers, when prelates and monks were 
 alike corrupt, and the spiritual life of 
 the Church was committed to the faith- 
 ful few, and by them was kept alive. 
 To his peace-loving heart the strife and 
 turmoils of the world were a source of 
 great sorrow, and as he lacked power or 
 position to suppress them by force, he 
 spent his time in writing, as by a divine 
 inspiration, the "De Contemptu Mundi" 
 ("On The Contempt of the World"), a 
 satire upon the iniquities of the age. 
 
 This Latin poem, of nearly three 
 thousand lines, he dedicated to his Abbot, 
 Peter the Venerable. It is a bitter 
 satire upon the corruptions of the times, 
 but opens with a description of the 
 peace and glory of heaven, and this part 
 
^l|0rt ^toma of tl|f f gmtta 167 
 
 of the poem is so exquisite that it has 
 for centuries excited universal admira- 
 tion. ''The meter of the original is 
 very strange, each line being broken up 
 into three equal parts — a most difficult 
 meter, and one which only a special 
 grace and inspiration enabled the author, 
 as he beheved, to master. The follow- 
 ing arrangement of the first lines will 
 make this intelligible:" 
 
 "Hora novissima 1| tempora pessima |] sunt: vigile- 
 mus 
 Ecce! minaciter II imminet arbiter ||ille aupre- 
 
 mus! 
 
 »»»* 
 
 John Mason Neale made a most ex- 
 cellent translation of a part of this 
 wonderful hymn of Bernard of Cluny, 
 and the hymns above indicated are 
 simply brief extracts from this transla- 
 tion. As the author of this Httle book 
 
 ♦ Schaff-Herzog Cyc. 
 
168 ^l|ort ^toma nf tlj^ %mtt0 
 
 is persuaded that comparatively very 
 few of his readers have ever seen the 
 whole of Neale's rendering of this famous 
 hymn, he thinks well here to insert it. 
 Its date is about A. D. 1150. 
 
 The Celestial Country 
 
 The world is very evil; 
 
 The times are waxing late: 
 Be sober and keep vigil; 
 
 The Judge is at the gate: 
 The Judge That comes in mercy, 
 
 The Judge That comes with might. 
 To terminate the evil, 
 
 To diadem the right. 
 When the just and gentle Monarch 
 
 Shall summon from the tomb, 
 Let man, the guilty, tremble. 
 
 For Man, the God, shall doom. 
 Arise, arise, good Christian, 
 
 Let right to wrong succeed; 
 Let penitential sorrow 
 
 To heavenly gladness lead, 
 To the light that hath no evening, 
 
^J|0rt ^tf^xxsB of tlj? famtw 169 
 
 That knows nor moon nor sun, 
 The light so new and golden, 
 
 The light that is but one. 
 And when the Sole-Begotten 
 
 Shall render up once more 
 The Kingdom to the Father 
 Whose own it was before, — 
 Then glory yet unheard of 
 Shall shed abroad its ray, 
 Resolving all enigmas, 
 
 An endless Sabbath-day. 
 Then, then from his oppressors 
 
 The Hebrew shall go free, 
 And celebrate in triumph 
 
 The year of Jubilee; 
 And the sunlit Land that recks not 
 
 Of tempest nor of fight. 
 Shall fold within its bosom 
 
 Each happy Israelite: 
 The Home of fadeless splendor. 
 
 Of flowers that fear no thorn. 
 Where they shall dwell as children, 
 
 Who here as exiles mourn. 
 Midst power that knows no limit, 
 And wisdom free from bound, 
 
170 ^Jynrt Bttimz at % %mttB 
 
 The Beatific Vision 
 
 Shall glad the Saints around: 
 The peace of all the faithful, 
 
 The calm of all the blest, 
 Inviolate, unvaried, 
 
 Divinest, sweetest, best. 
 Yes, peace! for war is needless, — 
 
 Yes, calm! for storm is past, — 
 And goal from finished labour. 
 
 And anchorage at last. 
 That peace — but who may claim it? 
 
 The guileless in their way, 
 Who keep the ranks of battle. 
 
 Who mean the thing they say: 
 The peace that is for heaven, 
 
 And shall be for the earth: 
 The palace that re-echoes 
 
 With festal song and mirth; 
 The garden, breathing spices. 
 
 The paradise on high; 
 Grace beautified to glory, 
 
 Unceasing minstrelsy. 
 There nothing can be feeble. 
 
 There none can ever mourn, 
 There nothing is divided. 
 
^lynrt ^tamB ai % %mttH 171 
 
 There nothing can be torn: 
 'Tis fury, ill, and scandal, 
 
 'Tis peaceless peace below; 
 Peace, endless, strifeless, ageless, 
 
 The halls of Syon know: 
 O happy, holy portion. 
 
 Refection for the blest; 
 True vision of true beauty, 
 
 Sweet cure of all distrest! 
 Strive, man, to win that glory; 
 
 Toil, man, to gain that light; 
 Send hope before to grasp it, 
 
 Till hope be lost in sight: 
 Till Jesus gives the portion 
 
 Those blessed souls to fill, 
 The insatiate, yet satisfied, 
 
 The full, yet craving still. 
 That fullness and that craving 
 
 Alike are free from pain. 
 Where thou, midst heavenly citizens, 
 
 A home like theirs shalt gain. 
 Here is the warlike trumpet; 
 
 There, life set free from sin; 
 When to the last Great Supper 
 
 The faithful shall come in: 
 
172 ^l|ort ^t0m0 of tl|? ^^mm 
 
 When the heavenly net is laden, 
 
 With fishes many and great; 
 So glorious in its fulness. 
 
 Yet so inviolate: 
 And the perfect from the shattered. 
 
 And the fall'n from them that stand, 
 And the sheep-flock from the goat-herd 
 
 Shall part on either hand: 
 And these shall pass to torment, 
 
 And those shall triumph, then; 
 The new peculiar nation. 
 
 Blest number of blest men. 
 Jerusalem demands them: 
 
 They paid the price on earth. 
 And now shall reap the harvest 
 
 In blissfulness and mirth: 
 The glorious holy people. 
 
 Who evermore relied 
 Upon their Chief and Father, 
 
 The King, the Crucified: 
 The sacred ransomed number 
 
 Now bright with endless sheen, 
 Who made the Cross their watchword 
 
 Of Jesus Nazarene: 
 Who, fed with heavenly nectar. 
 
§'I|0rt ^tort^a ttt % ilfgmtta 173 
 
 Where soul-like odours play, 
 Draw out the endless leisure 
 
 Of that long vernal day : 
 And through the sacred lilies. 
 
 And flowers on every side, 
 The happy dear-bought people 
 
 Go wandering far and wide. 
 Their breasts are filled with gladness. 
 
 Their mouths are tun'd to praise 
 What time, now safe for ever, 
 
 On former sins they gaze: 
 The fouler was the error. 
 
 The sadder was the fall. 
 The ampler are the praises 
 
 Of Him Who pardoned all; 
 Their one and only anthem. 
 
 The fulness of His love, 
 Who gives instead of torment, 
 
 Eternal joys above: 
 Instead of torment, glory; 
 
 Instead of death, that life 
 Wherewith your happy Country, 
 
 True Israelites! is rife. 
 
 Brief life is here our portion; 
 Brief sorrow, short-lived care; 
 
174 ^l|0rt ^tamB at llfp ^^m 
 
 The life that knows no ending, 
 
 The tearless life, is there. 
 O happy retribution! 
 
 Short toil, eternal rest; 
 For mortals and for sinners 
 
 A mansion with the blest! 
 That we should look, poor wand'rers, 
 
 To have our home on high! 
 That worms should seek for dwellings 
 
 Beyond the starry sky! 
 To all one happy guerdon 
 
 Of one celestial grace; 
 For all, for all, who mourn their fall, 
 
 Is one eternal place: 
 And martyrdom hath roses 
 
 Upon that heavenly ground: 
 And white and virgin lilies 
 
 For virgin-souls abound. 
 There grief is turned to pleasure; 
 
 Such pleasure, as below 
 No human voice can utter, 
 
 No human heart can know: 
 And after fleshly scandal. 
 
 And after this world's night, 
 And after storm and whirlwind, 
 
Is calm, and joy, and light. 
 And now we fight the battle, 
 
 But then shall wear the crown 
 Of full and everlasting 
 
 And passionless renown: 
 And now we watch and struggle, 
 
 And now we live in hope, 
 And Syon, in her anguish, 
 
 With Babylon must cope: 
 But He Whom now we trust in 
 
 Shall then be seen and known, 
 And they that know and see Him 
 
 Shall have Him for their own. 
 The miserable pleasures 
 
 Of the body shall decay: 
 The bland and flattering struggles 
 
 Of the flesh shall pass away: 
 And none shall there be jealous; 
 
 And none shall there contend: 
 Fraud, clamour, guile — what say I? 
 
 All ill, all ill shall end! 
 And there is David's Fountain, 
 
 And life in fullest glow. 
 And there the light is golden, 
 
 And milk and honey flow: 
 
176 #Ijnrt BtfxmB of tlje il^gmnH 
 
 The light that hath no evening, 
 The health that hath no sore, 
 
 The life that hath no ending, 
 But lasteth evermore. 
 
 There Jesus shall embrace us, 
 
 There Jesus be embraced, — 
 That spirit's food and sunshine 
 
 Whence earthly love is chased. 
 Amidst the happy chorus, 
 
 A place, however low. 
 Shall shew Him us, and shewing, 
 
 Shall satiate evermo. 
 By hope we struggle onward. 
 
 While here we must be fed 
 By milk, as tender infants, 
 
 But there by Living Bread. 
 The night was full of terror, 
 
 The morn is bright with gladness: 
 The Cross becomes our harbour, 
 
 And we triumph after sadness: 
 And Jesus to His true ones 
 
 Brings trophies fair to see: 
 And Jesus shall be loved, and 
 
 Beheld in Galilee: 
 
Beheld, when morn shall waken, 
 
 And shadows shall decay, 
 And each true-hearted servant 
 
 Shall shine as doth the day: 
 And every ear shall hear it; — 
 
 Behold thy King's array: 
 Behold thy God in beauty, 
 
 The Law hath past away! 
 Yes! God my King and Portion, 
 
 In fulness of His grace. 
 We then shall see for ever, 
 
 And worship face to face. 
 Then Jacob into Israel 
 
 From earthlier self estranged. 
 And Leah into Rachel 
 
 For ever shall be changed: 
 Then all the halls of Syon 
 
 For aye shall be complete. 
 And, in the Land of Beauty, 
 
 All things of beauty meet. 
 
 For thee, O dear, dear Country! 
 
 Mine eyes their vigils keep; 
 For very love, beholding 
 
 Thy happy name, they weep: 
 
178 ^I|ort BtamB nf % %mtt0 
 
 The mention of thy glory- 
 Is unction to the breast, 
 And medicine in sickness. 
 
 And love, and life, and rest. 
 O one, O onely Mansion! 
 
 O Paradise of Joy! 
 Where tears are ever banished, 
 
 And smiles have no alloy; 
 Beside thy living waters. 
 
 All plants are, great and small, 
 The cedar of the forest, 
 
 The hyssop of the wall: 
 With jaspers glow thy bulwarks; 
 
 Thy streets with emeralds blaze; 
 The sardius and the topaz 
 
 Unite in thee their rays: 
 Thine ageless walls are bonded 
 
 With amethyst unpriced: 
 Thy Saints build up its fabric. 
 
 And the corner stone is Christ. 
 The Cross is all thy splendour. 
 
 The Crucified thy praise: 
 His laud and benediction 
 
 Thy ransomed people raise: 
 Jesus, the Gem of Beauty, 
 
i'lyort ^itxvv^^ of % ligmtta 179 
 
 True God and Man, they sing: 
 The never-failing Garden, 
 
 The ever-golden Ring: 
 The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, 
 
 The Guardian of his Court: 
 The Day-star of Salvation, 
 
 The Porter and the Port. 
 Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! 
 
 Thou hast no time, bright day! 
 Dear fountain of refreshment 
 
 To pilgrims far away! 
 Upon the Rock of Ages 
 
 They raise thy holy tower: 
 Thine is the victor's laurel. 
 
 And thine the golden dower: 
 Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, 
 
 O Bride that know'st no guile, 
 The Prince's sweetest kisses, 
 
 The Prince's loveliest smile; 
 Unfading lilies, bracelets 
 
 Of living pearl thine own; 
 The Lamb is ever near thee. 
 
 The Bridegroom thine alone; 
 The Crown is He to guerdon, 
 
 The Buckler to protect, 
 
180 #I|ort ^tnma nf thp %mtta 
 
 And He Himself the Mansion 
 
 And He the Architect. 
 The only art thou needest, 
 
 Thanksgiving for thy lot: 
 The only joy thou seekest, 
 
 The Life where Death is not: 
 And all thine endless leisure 
 
 In sweetest accents sings, 
 The ill that was thy merit, — 
 
 The wealth that is thy King's! 
 
 Jerusalem the golden, 
 
 With milk and honey blest, 
 Beneath thy contemplation 
 
 Sink heart and voice oppressed: 
 I know not, O I know not, 
 
 ^Vhat social joys are there; 
 What radiancy of glory. 
 
 What light beyond compare! 
 And when I fain would sing them, 
 
 My spirit fails and faints; 
 And vainly would it image 
 
 The assembly of the Saints. 
 They stand, those halls of Syon, 
 
 Con jubilant with song. 
 
^Ifnrt BtBvxtB of ti^t l^^mm 181 
 
 And bright with many an angel. 
 
 And all the martyr throng: 
 The Prince is ever in them; 
 
 The daylight is serene; 
 The pastures of the Blessed 
 
 Are decked in glorious sheen. 
 There is the Throne of David, — 
 
 And there, from care released, 
 The song of them that triumph, 
 
 The shout of them that feast; 
 And they who, with their Leader, 
 
 Have conquered in the fight, 
 For ever and for ever 
 
 Are clad in robes of white! 
 
 O holy, placid harp-notes 
 
 Of that eternal hymn! 
 O sacred, sweet refection. 
 
 And peace of Seraphim! 
 O thirst, for ever ardent. 
 
 Yet evermore content! 
 O true peculiar vision 
 
 Of God cunctipotent! 
 Ye know the many mansions 
 
 For many a glorious name. 
 
182 i'liort ^tnrlfa of tijp %mtt2 
 
 And divers retributions 
 
 That divers merits claim: 
 For midst the constellations 
 
 That deck our earthly sky, 
 This star than that is brighter, — 
 
 And so it is on high. 
 Jerusalem the glorious! 
 
 The glory of the Elect! 
 O dear and future vision 
 
 That eager hearts expect: 
 Even now by faith I see thee: 
 
 Even here thy walls discern: 
 To thee my thoughts are kindled, 
 
 And strive and pant and yearn. 
 Jerusalem the onely, 
 
 That look'st from heaven below 
 In thee is all my glory; 
 
 In me is all my woe: 
 And though my body may not. 
 
 My spirit seeks thee fain. 
 Till flesh and earth return me 
 
 To earth and flesh again. 
 O none can tell thy bulwarks, 
 
 How gloriously they rise: 
 O none can tell thy capitals 
 
B'ljnrt ^tflma of % l|gmtta 183 
 
 Of beautiful device: 
 Thy loveliness oppresses 
 
 All human thought and heart. 
 And none, O peace, O Syon, 
 
 Can sing thee as thou art. 
 New mansion of new people. 
 
 Whom God's own love and Hght 
 Promote, increase, make holy, 
 
 Identify, unite. 
 Thou City of the Angels! 
 
 Thou City of the Lord! 
 Whose everlasting music 
 
 Is the glorious decachord! 
 And there the band of Prophets 
 
 United praise ascribes, 
 And there the twelvefold chorus 
 
 Of Israel's ransomed tribes: 
 The lily-beds of virgins. 
 
 The roses' martyr-glow, 
 The cohort of the Fathers 
 
 Who kept the faith below. 
 And there the Sole-Begotten 
 
 Is Lord in regal state; 
 He, Judah's mystic Lion, 
 
 He, Lamb Immaculate. 
 
184 i>lf0rt BtBvxtB nf tlyp %mtta 
 
 O fields that know no sorrow! 
 O state that fears no strife! 
 
 princely bow'rs! O land of flow'rs! 
 
 realm and home of life! 
 
 Jerusalem, exulting 
 
 On that securest shore, 
 
 1 hope thee, wish thee, sing thee. 
 And love thee evermore! 
 
 I ask not for my merit: 
 
 1 seek not to deny 
 My merit is destruction, 
 
 A child of wrath am I: 
 But yet with Faith I venture 
 
 And Hope upon my way; 
 For those perennial guerdons 
 
 I labour night and day. 
 The Best and Dearest Father 
 
 Who made me and Who saved. 
 Bore with me in defilement, 
 
 And from defilement laved: 
 When in His strength I struggle. 
 
 For very joy I leap. 
 When in my sin I totter^ 
 
 I weep, or try to weep: 
 
^Ijnrt i'tumfi of % fgmna 185 
 
 And grace, sweet grace celestial, 
 Shall all its love display. 
 
 And David's Royal Fountain 
 Purge every sin away. 
 
 O mine, my golden Syon! 
 
 O lovelier far than gold! 
 With laurel-girt batallions. 
 
 And safe victorious fold: 
 O sweet and blessed Country, 
 
 Shall I ever see thy face? 
 
 sweet and blessed Country, 
 Shall I ever win thy grace? 
 
 1 have the hope within me 
 To comfort and to bless! 
 
 Shall I ever win the prize itself? 
 O tell me, tell me. Yes! 
 
 Exult, O dust and ashes! 
 
 The Lord shall be thy part: 
 His only. His for ever. 
 
 Thou shalt be, and thou art! 
 Exult, O dust and ashes! 
 
 The Lord shall be thy part: 
 His only, His for ever. 
 
 Thou shalt be, and thou art! 
 
186 ^l|ort BtomB of % l|gmna 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 In conclusion — it is well worthy of 
 our thankful observation that the hymns 
 of Christendom present an array of piety 
 and scholarship truly admirable. They 
 were written by some of the wisest and 
 best men that ever lived; by writers of 
 the highest literary qualification, by 
 theologians of the profoundest ability, 
 by College presidents and by University 
 graduates. In the olden time God re- 
 quired of the Jews that they should 
 bring only "beaten oil" for the light of 
 His sanctuary and He still cares that the 
 best talent and the most unquestioned 
 piety should be employed in His Church, 
 while at the same time He has not failed 
 to set the seal of His approval to the 
 fervid tributes of song offered by some 
 
#lj0rt ^tflrtw stf tijf %mttfi 187 
 
 who were ignorant and illiterate in the 
 things of man but wise in the things 
 of God. For it must be conceded by 
 every thoughtful and reverent person, 
 that the hymns of the Church, whether 
 written by men of culture or by men of 
 no education, have ever been under the 
 direction of divine providence. As 
 some one has said — "Men may discuss 
 the nature and the scope of the inspira- 
 tion of the scriptures, but of the inspira- 
 tion of the hymn book I, for one, am 
 fully persuaded. Here, surely, as well 
 as in the scriptures, 'Holy men of old 
 spake as they were moved by the Holy 
 Ghost.'" 
 
 But, how strange it seems that of all 
 the exquisite hymns known and loved 
 by the Church of the present day, not 
 one was known to the Church of the 
 first century of the Christian era. Even 
 St. Paul never heard nor used any of our 
 
188 ^l|nrt Stunts af ti^t %mn0 
 
 hymns. Not even the long-meter dox- 
 ology was sung in his day. In the 
 PhiHppian jail "at midnight Paul and 
 Silas prayed and sang praises to God," 
 and it is a matter of regret that "Jesus, 
 lover of my soul" was not known to 
 them — it would have been so strangely 
 fitting. 
 
 Moreover, unknown as all of our 
 hymns were to the early Church, equally 
 unknown will they be to the Church in 
 Heaven. They are our Pilgrim songs 
 in our journey through the wilderness 
 of this world, but not one of them will 
 serve when we have at last crossed the 
 Jordan and have laid the pilgrim's staff 
 aside forever. 
 
 The hymn that will there be sung — 
 "the shout of them that triumph, and 
 the song of them that feast," — will be a 
 song that has never yet been written, 
 at least by mortal man. As is said in 
 
Biftitt BtafuB of tl|0 l^ymtta 189 
 
 the Book of Revelation, it will be "A 
 New Song" that the redeemed will sing. 
 
 "Jesus, lover of my soul, 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
 While the raging billows roll" — 
 
 that will no longer do; for there the 
 raging billows will no longer roll, in that 
 blessed haven of eternal rest. And — 
 
 "Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee; 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 That raiseth me" — 
 
 this will no longer serve in that land 
 where the cross will be forever exchanged 
 for the crown of everlasting rejoicing. 
 Nor will it fare any better with — 
 
 "Sun of my soul. Thou Saviour dear, 
 It is not night if Thou be near" — 
 
 for "There will be no night there." 
 
190 Bh[Ovt ^tortea of tijp %mttB 
 
 No, no. It will be a new song the re- 
 deemed will sing, and it will be '* written 
 in heaven." "And no man could learn 
 that song but they that are redeemed." 
 
 "And I heard as the voice of a great 
 multitude, and as the voice of many 
 waters, and as the voice of mighty 
 thunderings, saying — Alleluiah: for the 
 Lord God Omnipotent reigneth. " 
 
 Amen ! 
 
MhtK of Autl|0ra 191 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Adams, Sarah, Mrs 36 
 
 Bernard of Cluny 165 
 
 Brooks, Phillips 114 
 
 Brown, Phoebe H., Mrs 127 
 
 Cowper, William 61 
 
 Dickson, David 147 
 
 Duffield, George 101 
 
 Dwight, Timothy 15 
 
 Elliot, Charlotte 100 
 
 Fawcett, John 20 
 
 Gould, S. Baring 107 
 
 Grigg, Joseph 85 
 
 Harbaugh, Henry 81 
 
 Heber, Reginald 88 
 
 Keble, John H 131 
 
 Ken, Thomas 138 
 
 Key, Francis Scott 121 
 
 Luther, Martin 53 
 
192 3nhtx af A«tI|orH 
 
 Lyte, Henry Francis 40 
 
 Mason, Lowell 77 
 
 Neale, John Mason 164 
 
 Nelson, David 109 
 
 Newman, John Henry 46 
 
 Palmer, Ray 76 
 
 Payne, John Howard 117 
 
 Redner, L. H 114 
 
 Robinson, Robert 12 
 
 Root, George F 112 
 
 Schmolke, Benjamin 48 
 
 Toplady, Augustus 67 
 
 Tyng, Dudley A 103 
 
 Watts, Isaac 54 
 
 Wesley, Charles 23 
 
 Williams, William 70 
 
 Winkworth, Miss 49 
 
]^nhtx of %m«0 193 
 
 INDEX OF HYMNS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Abide with me, fast falls the eventide 40 
 
 All praise to Thee, my God, this night 144 
 
 Awake, my soul, and with the sun 144 
 
 Before Jehovah's awful throne 58 
 
 Blest be the tie that binds 19 
 
 Brief life is here our portion 163 
 
 Brightest and best of the sons of the morning . 91 
 
 By cool Siloam's shady rill 98 
 
 Come, Thou Fount of every blessing 12 
 
 For Thee, O dear, dear Country 163 
 
 From Greenland's icy mountains 93 
 
 God moves in a mysterious way 62 
 
 Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah 70 
 
 JX; Holy, holy, holy. Lord God almighty 90 
 
 Home, sweet Home 117 
 
 I love Thy Kingdom, Lord 15 
 
 I love to steal a while away 127 
 
 y Jerusalem the golden 163 
 
194 dinhtx of %mtta 
 
 Jesus, and shall it ever be 85 
 
 V Jesus Christ is risen today 90 
 
 Jesus, I live to Thee 82 
 
 Jesus, I my cross have taken 42 
 
 Jesus, Lover of my soul 23 
 
 Jesus shall reign where'er the sun 57 
 
 Jesus, to Thy Cross I hasten 81 
 
 Joy to the world, the Lord is come 57 
 
 Just as I am, without one plea 97 
 
 Lead kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom. 45 
 
 Lo ! He comes with clouds descending 90 
 
 My days are gliding swiftly by 109 
 
 My faith looks up to Thee 76 
 
 My Jesus, as Thou wilt 49 
 
 My soul, repeat His praise 57 
 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee 36 
 
 >■ O God, our help in ages past 57 
 
 '^ Oh for a closer walk with God 62, 66 
 
 O little town of Bethlehem 113 
 
 O Mother dear, Jerusalem 147 
 
 Onward, Christian soldiers 107 
 
 Praise God from whom all blessings flow .... 130 
 
 Rock of Ages, cleft for me 67 
 
 Stand up, stand up, for Jesus 100 
 
 y' Star spangled Banner 121 
 
Jlnbrx of liumttB 195 
 
 Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear 130 
 
 The world is very evil ("The Celestial Coun- 
 try") 168 
 
 There is a Fountain filled with blood 65 
 
 There is a Land of pure delight 59 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not 
 
 deplore Thee 91 
 
 •^k When I survey the wondrous Cross 56 
 

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