They are both so well known that I need quote no more— the evening hymn usually closes with his Doxology, Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Poor Bishop Ken had an unhappy time between the upper and nether millstones by earthly kings. He was appointed bishop of Bath and Wells by Charles II., but in 1688 he was sent to the Tower as one of the immortal seven bishops who refused to publish from the pulpit the king's "decree of indulgency" as derogating from the spiritual freedom of the church. The bishops were acquitted with applause; James II. was driven from England and William and Mary came to the throne. William had said as he landed, in his broken English, “I came for your good, for all your goods," but he did not seem to bring much good to our bishop. Having sworn allegiance to James, Ken did not feel at liberty to change it to William, and was, therefore, deprived of his bishopric as a nonjuror. When William III. died in 1703, Queen Anne desired to restore Bishop Ken to his See, but he was now growing old, was living in honorable and quiet retirement, and was indeed even then thinking of departing to a country where Christian ministers are not incarcerated and deprived of their livings because they stand true to their conscientious convictions. So the good man declined the honor. Bishop Ken died in 1711, but his Doxology will live forever: 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, Amen. REV. Henry Francis Lyte was an English minister, perpetual curate of Lower Brixham, Devonshire, England. He wrote several devotional hymns, but by far the greatest is "Abide with Me." Retiring from active work through ill health, though only in middle life, he wrote this hymn on the evening of the day wherein he preached his last sermon. He died and lies buried at Nice, and his grave is often visited by far away visitors who have been stirred by the beautiful hymn: Abide with me-fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide. Mrs. Van Alstyne (Fanny Crosby), who died in 1916, wrote over 2000 hymns, many of them very beautiful. She was blind from early childhood. Her husband, also, was a blind musician. Her "Safe in the Arms of Jesus" and the one from which we quote stand deservedly high in Christian hymnology: Some day the silver cord will break And I no more as now shall sing, The "Silver Cord" seems to have in it a reference to Ecclesiastes xii., 6. We say that Dr. Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood through the heart in the seventeenth century, but whoever wrote the twelfth chapter of Ecclesiastes understood not only the circulation of the blood, but something of the body's anatomy. The sixth verse of that chapter implies both the spinal cord and the flow of the blood to and from the heart. "Or ever the silver cord be loosed or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern." Bernard, the Benedictine monk, of Cluny abbey, living in the twelfth century, wrote some thousands of lines, some quite inferior, but Dr. Neale has picked out and given us a flowing translation of over 100 lines divided into three hymns, of which the thirty-two lines embraced in our hymn entitled "Jerusalem the Golden" are perhaps the most beautiful and best known, being particularly used in the Anglican service. Many years ago Mr. Bascom, of Philadelphia, preached in Pittsburgh from Hebrews xi., 13-16. "These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off and were persuaded of them and embraced them and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. "For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country. "And truly if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out they might have had opportunity to have returned. "But now they desire a better country, that is an heavenly, wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he hath prepared for them a city." As Mr. Bascom closed his sermon a stranger in the gallery arose and in splendid voice sang: Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Sink heart and voice opprest. What light beyond compare. The great congregation arose spontaneously and joined in the hymn, and immediately a wide religious awakening occured, such as Pittsburgh had never seen. DEAN RAMSAY tells of an old Scotch elder who said he liked to read the imprecatory "Psalms of King Dawvid" in the Gaelic, because they were "sae mouthfilling an sae satisfeeing." But for soul satisfying and imparting trusting restfulness in the providence of Almighty God, there are few things in print equal to Cowper's great hymn: God moves in a mysterious way He plants His footsteps in the sea Deep in unfathomable mines He treasures up his great designs Ye fearful saints fresh courage take! Judge not the Lord by feeble sense His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain— God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain. Poor Cowper! This was perhaps his last hymn. He was in the gloaming-in the borderland between mental light and darkness. In a fit of melancholy he had gone down to the Ouse with the intention of throwing himself in, when a man walking on the bank made him think that he was watched, so he returned home. He then tried a cravat, but the contrivance broke, and rising from the floor he went to his table and penned his marvelous hymn, which has brought rest, renewed hope, strengthened assurance and confirmed faith to millions. The following I took from an old paper, more than a generation ago, crediting it to the Christian Union—a striking commentary upon this great hymn. The scene seems laid in a lawyer's office: "No," said the lawyer, "I sha'nt press your claim against that man; you can get someone else to take the case, or you can withdraw it, just as you please." "Think there isn't any money in it?" "There would probably be some money in it, but it would, as you know, come from the sale of the little house the man occupies and calls 'home;' but I don't want to meddle with the matter, anyhow." "Got frightened out of it, eh?" "No, I wasn't frightened out of it." "I suppose likely the old fellow begged hard to be let off?" "Well-yes, he did." "And you caved, likely?" "Yes." "And you never said a word?" "Not a word." "What in creation did you do?" "I believe I shed a few tears." "And the old fellow begged you hard, you say?" |