"Jesus, Lover of My Soul"

Bout the time that Isaac Watts was writing his earliest hjnnns at Southampton, in southem England, two brothers were born in the little town of Epworth, who were destined to be better known over the world than any other two men whom Britain produced in that half-century. While their godly mother (Susanna) was dying, she said to her weeping household, “My children, as soon as my spirit is released, sing a song of praise to God.” Among the group who joined in this song of triumph with faltering voices, were John, the founder of Methodism, and Charles, its sweet singer. John was system; but Charles was song, John was the Bezaleel who laid the foundations, and hewed out the pillars of the new tabernacle; but Charles was the Asaph who filled it with melody. Methodism was builded rapidly j but the walls never would have gone up so fast had they not been built to music,

Charles Wesley was a born poet Like Toplady, he was all nerve and fire and enthusiasm. God gave him a musical ear, intense emotions, ardent affections, and a glowing piety that never grew cold. He ate, drank, slept, and dreamed nothing but hymns I He must have been the ready writer of at least four thousand. One dsLYf while on his itinerancy, and threw him off. The only record he makes of the accident in his diary is this: “My companions thought I had broken my neck; but my leg only was bruised, my hand sprained, and my head stunned, which spoiled my making hymns until — next day!” Truly a man must have been possessed with a master-passion, who could have written a sentence like that.

Wesley found his inspirations “on every hedge.” He threw off hymns as Spurgeon throws off sermons. For example, when he was preaching to a crowd of rude stonecutters and quarrymen at Portland, he turned his appeal into metre, and improvised a hymn, in which occur the vigorous lines:

“Come, O Thou all-victorious Lord,
Thy power to us make known;
Strike with the hammer of Thy word,
And break these hearts of stone!”

Standing, once, on the dizzy promontory of Land’s End, and looking down into the boiling waves on each side of the cliff, he broke out into these solemn and thrilling words:

“Lo! on a narrow neck of land,
‘Twixt two unbounded seas I stand,
Yet how insensible!”

For every scene and circumstance of life, for prayer-meetings, for watch-nights, for love-feasts, and for dying hours and funerals, he had a holy, impassioned lay. But, like Watts, Cowper, and Toplady, he had his masterpiece. The Lord oi of li^XQr«^4 ^tj.

‘’^esusy Lover of my Soul’’ 51

Charles Wesley the high honor of composing the finest heart-hymn in the English tongue. If the greatest hymn of the cross is “Rock of Ages,” and the greatest hymn of providence is Cowper’s “God moves in a mysterious way,” and the grandest battle-hymn is Martin Luther’s “God is our refuge,” then it may be said, also, that the queen of all the lays of holy love is that immortal song:

“Jesus, lover of my soul!
Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the billows near me roll,
While the tempest still is high!”

Whatever may be said of Wesley’s doctrine of perfect holiness, there is not much doubt that he “attained unto perfection” when he wrote this hymn. It is happily married, also, to two exquisite tunes, “Refuge “and” Martyn ‘*; both of which are worthy of the alliance. The first of these tunes is a gem.

The one central, all-pervading idea of this matchless hymn is the soul’s yearning for its Saviour. The figures of speech vary, but not the thought. In one line we see a storm-tossed voyager crpng out for shelter until the tempest is over. In another line we see a timid, tearful child nestling in its mother’s arms, with the words faltering on its tongue: —

“Let me to Thy bosom fly I”

“Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.”

Two lines of the hymn have been breathed itxvently and ofitn out of bleeding liti» “Wsns:^ were once in the valley of the death-shade, with one beautiful child in its new-made grave, and the other threatened with fatal disease, there was no prayer which we uttered oftener than this: —

“Leave, ah! leave me not alone;
Still support and comfort me”

We do not doubt that tens of thousands of other bereaved and wounded hearts have cried this piercing cry, out of the depths: —

“Still support and comfort me!”

The whole hymn is at once a confession and a prayer. It is a prayer in metre. And no man is prepared to sing these words aright unless his soul is filled with deepest and most earnest longings after the Lord Jesus. What aii awful blasphemy it is for a set of mere trifling amateurs in a choir to perform this holy prayer merely as a feat of musical skill. What college boy would dare to commit the Lord’s Prayer, or one of his pastor’s public petitions to memory, and then speak it as a mere piece of declamation on the stage? Yet we do not see any difference between declaiming a prayer, and the heartless mockery of i)erformingy for musical effect, such words as: —

“Hide me, O my Saviour, hide.
Till the stonn of life is past!”

Or that self-surrender for the dying hour: — “Oh, receive my soul at last!”

Wpxds like these are too m&rvvleV^ ^oVwxxi fot tke ‘^yesuSy Lover of my Soul’’ 53

mummeries of frivolous lips in the concert-room or the organ-loft. When a congregation sing such a hymn as “Jesus, lover of my soul,” each one should feel as if he were uttering a fervent personal prayer to the Son of God.

The history of Charles Wesley’s incomparable hymn would fill a volume. Millions have sung it, and will be singing it when the millennial mom breaks. A coasting vessel once went on the rOcks in a gale in the British Channel. The captain and crew took to the boats and were lost. They might have been saved if they had remained on board; for a huge wave carried the vessel up among the rocks, where the ebbing tide left her high and dry. In the captain’s cabin a hymn-book was found lying on his table. It was opened at a particular page, and the pencil still lay in it which had marked the favourite lines of the stout sailor, who was just about going into the jaws of death. While the hurricane was howling outside, the captain had drawn his pencil beside these glorious words of cheer: —

Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the billows near me roll.

While the tempest still is high I
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide.

Till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide;

Oh! receive my soul at last!”

Blessed death-song I Thousands ot OoS^^ ^^^^lssr.^ ones have shouted it forth as the “haven” of opened its celestial glories to their view. If we ( choose the manner of our departure, we would to die singing: —

Other refuge have I none;

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee!
Leave, ah! leave me not alone;

Still support and comfort me:
All my trust on Thee is stayed.

All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenceless head

With the shadow of Thy wing »”