Hymns of the Heart
10 the richest and sweetest of all modern hymns of the heart we have paid our tribute of affection. The name of its author — Charles Wesley — should be exceeding dear to every lover of Jesus. To him belongs the glory of having written not only more hymns than any other man, but also of composing one sacred song which takes rank next to the “Dies Irse” and the “Rock of Ages.”
Since his day several new and beautiful contributions have been made to that class of hymns, which may be called Songs of the SouL Like many of David’s most precious psalms, they are the musical outflow of a deep inward experience. Let us now bind a fresh chaplet around the modest brow of the authoress of one of these heart-songs.
Her name appears in most of the lately-published collections, yet few know anything about her. She was born at Cambridge, England, in February, 1805. Her father, Mr. Benjamin Flower, was the editor of a weekly paper. Her mother was a woman of fine gifts and culture. Their youngest daughter, Sarah F. Flower, was worthy of her name. For “Sarah” signifies z. princess and sweeter fragrance has rarely exhaled from any ower in lYie ^aidet ol ^^ljat.
This gifted girl married Mr. William B. Adams, an English civil engineer of superior abilities. She was of frail constitution, and, amid many bodily sufferings, she kept her pen at work upon various poetical productions. One of these was a religious drama. Another was a volume for children, entitled, “The Flock at the Fountain.” At what time she caught the inspiration to compose that one immortal hymn which is now sung around the globe, we have never learned. Probably it was some season of peculiar trial, when the bruised spirit emitted the odours of a child-like submission to a chastening Father. It must have oozed from a bleeding heart. As in the case of Toplady and Charlotte Elliott and Ray Palmer, the singer little dreamed that her song would be heard through the ages.
Her hymn first appeared in a volume of sacred lyrics, published by a Mr. Fox, in England, about the year 1841. The authoress did not live to catch the echoes of the fame it was ot bring, for she died in 1849, 3.t the age of forty-four. She was buried near Harlow, in Essex, and for several years her name was known to but few beyond the circle of loving fiiends who read it on her monument.
Presently the hymn began to work its way into various collections of songs for worship. It crossed to America. It was heard with delight in our prayer-meetings. It was married to the noble tune of “Bethany,” and everybody caught the glorious strain. In noonday gatherings for prayt lt es li<::5isy’^ so familiar that if any one “struck up” the hymn, the whole audience joined in and sang it from memory. Last year, Professors Smith, Hitchcock, and Park, as they wound their way down the foot-hills of Mount Lebanon, came in sight of a group of fifty Syrian students, standing in a line, singing in full chorus. They were the students of the new “College of Beirut,” at Abieh, and they were singing in Arabic to the air of “Bethany.” As the Professors drew nearer, they caught the sublime words:
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.”
“I am not much given to the weeping mood,” said Prof. Hitchcock, when describing the thrilling scene,” but when we rode through the ranks of those Syrian youths, I confess that my eyes were a little damp.^^ If it be permitted to the departed people of God to witness the transactions of earth, we may imagine with what rapture the glorified spirit of Sarah Flower Adams overheard her heart-song thus chanted in the land of sacred story.
As a literary production, the hymn is not faultless. Nor is it quite faultless in its adaptation to Christian worship, for the name of Jesus is not in any of its rich stanzas. But as a poetical version of
Jacob’s dream at Bethel, and as the devout aspiration of a soul chanting to God its triumphant song in the nighty these lines have no peer in our modern hymnology. The authoress did not need to write another syllable than this one hymn of the wounded heart. This alone will carry the name of Sarah Adams into the minstrelsy of the millennium.
Has her hymn any equal of its kind in our time? Perhaps not; but two others stand very close to it One of them is the Rev. Hugh StowelFs “Mercy-seat,” beginning with the words:
“From every stormy wind that blows.”
The other is the production of Rev. Henry F. Lyte, a native of Kelso, Scotland, afterwards the home of that grand singer of holy songs, Horatius Bonar. Mr. Lyte entered the English Episcopal Church, and became the rector of Brixham, in Southern England, that poetic belt sacred to the lyres of Watts, Steele, Toplady, and Wesley. There he wrote that hymn (so often attributed to a “Miss Grant “) commencing:
Jesus, I my cross have taken.’*
His health failed, and in 1847 he was obliged to sail for Nice, where he soon fell asleep in Jesus. The last sabbath that he spent with his flock was the day of communion. Towards evening he handed to a friend a manuscript containing eight exquisite verses. They proved to be his own death-song of holy faith. Life’s brief day was ebbing swiftly to its close. The lay he sang is the most palKetve m omt lslrA&tcllss.- nology. Let any reader open to it, and his eyes will fill with tears as he reads:
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 life’s little day; Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see;
Thou who changest not, abide with me.
Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word;
But as Thou dwell’st with Thy disciples, Lord — Familiar, condescending, patient, free — Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me.
Come not in terrors, as the King of kings, But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings. Tears for il woes, a heart for every plea; Come, Friend of sinners, and thus abide with me.
Thou on my head in early youth didst smile, And, though rebellious and pervtese meanwhile, Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee! On to the close, O Lord, abide with me.
1 need Thy presence every passing hour;
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power? Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, oh abide with me.
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless; Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness; Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory I triumph still, if Thou abide mtiiiaft
Hold there 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, and death, O Lord, abide with me.”
But we must draw these reveries with the hymn-writers, and these counsels for the heart-life, to a close. As a labour of love have we written. We trust that the labour has not been in vain in the Lord. We close with those glorious lines of good old Bishop Ken, which have been sung oftener than any other four lines in the English language:
“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.”