The Great Hymn of Providence
A CORRESPONDENT expresses some surprise that in sketching the biographies, of many of the foremost favorites in our Christian hymnology, no notice had yet been taken of Coivper’s masterpiece. Certainly it was not Jfrom lack of loving admiration for a hymn which justly ranks among the half-dozen sublimest compositions in the whole range of sacred song. But it is not easy to say any thing new about so familiar a production. Let us briefly sketch its remarkable origin, for the information of those who have often sung it through tears, and yet never knew that it was born of tears and trials from the most gifted poetic soul in Britain.
About the beginning of the year 1773 Cowper was residing at Olney, on the borders of Huntingdonshire. He had recovered from the awful gloom of that partial insanity which had cast its fearful cloud over his early manhood. Close by him lived and preached that robust man and minister of Christ, John Newton. They became as intimate as David and Jonathan; and it was from their very dissimilarity that there grew up such a loving fellowship between the bluff and brawny converted sailor, and the timid melancholy poet. Newton brought to Cowper just what he wanted — a devout spiritual guide, and a soul-cheering companion.
Between the two was originated and completed the rich and heaven-born Olney Hymns. To this famous collection John Newton contributed two hundred and eighty-six hymns — and Cowper added sixty-two. But the smaller contribution proved to be the more precious in weight of metal. Among Newton’s many hymns are a few which God’s people will always love to sing. But to that collection Cowper’s genius brought those two gems of devotion, “O for a closer walk with God,” and “There is a fountain filled with blood.”
It yet remained for him to contribute one more — and one which ranks as the grandest Hymn of Providence in our mother tongue.
For seven years Cowper had been comparatively cheerful. The sun shone and the birds sang in his spiritual sky. But a foreboding impression of another attack of insanity began to creep over him. The presentiment grew deeper. The clouds gathered fast. It is said that he even meditated self-destruction, and left his quiet cottage to drown himself in the neighboring river Ouse! “Whether this statement be true or not, it is certain that he went forth from his house under the pall of an overwhelming gloom. Just while these black clouds of despair were darting their vivid lightnings into his suffering soul, the grandest inspiration of his life broke upon him, and he began to sing out these wonderful words: —
“God moves in a, mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.”
For several years Cowper’s splendid intellect was to be under a total eclipse. The penumbra was already darkening its disc. But in full view of the impending calamity, the inspired son of song chanted forth those strains of holy cheer: —
“Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning piovidence,
He hides a smiling face.”
Cowper never could have sung that sublime anthem of victory except under the immediate inspiration of the “power from on high.” It was to be his last song for many years. The storm was coming, but Cowper’s eye of faith saw Jehovah “riding above the storm.” The heavens gathered blackness, but the ineffable smile of his Divine Lord lurked behind the tempest. The “bud” of sorrow which was springing fast did have “a bitter taste,” — the very wormwood was not more bitter, — but oh, how “sweet the flower” that it unfolded!
This matchless hymn of providence which God put into the soul of His afflicted servant has been a “song in the night” to millions of
His people when under the discouraging clouds of adversity. A beloved friend in the city of St. Johns tells me that during the terrible famine in Lancashire, England, the work ran low at one of the cotton-mills. Occupation and wages grew less day by day. At length the overseer met the half-starved operatives, and announced to them the fatal tidings, “There is no more work.” Flickering hope went out in black despair. One delicate sweet girl — thin and pale with suffering — arose amid the heart-broken company and began to sing the cheering words she had learned in the Sunday school: —
“Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
“Blind unbelief is sure to err.
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.”
A sunburst of hope came over the despairing company when the sweet strain was ended. It proved a prophecy. For the proprietors determined to struggle on a while longer, — and ere long that mill was running again at full work. This scene was a parable. It had its counterpart in the darkest hours of our nation’s conflict, when we once heard Cowper’s sublime lines quoted in a vast patriotic meeting, amid tears and thunders of applause. Thousands of God’s children have chanted these stanzas as they walked through “valleys of death-shade.” Blessings and honor and praises to Him who giveth us such songs in the night!
Such was the history of Cowper’s unrivalled hymn of providence. We close this biography of an old and familiar hymn, by presenting a new and exquisite evening hymti which most of our readers never saw before. It is to
Christ the Healer.
At even, ere the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
Oh in what divers pains they met,
Oh in what joy they went away!
Once more, ’tis eventide, and we,
Oppressed with various ills, draw near;
What if Thy form we cannot see,
We know and feel that Thou art here.
Saviour Christ! our woes dispel,
For some are sick, and some are sad. And some have never loved Thee well;
And some have lost the love they had.
And some have found the world is vain. Yet from the world they break not free,
And some have friends, who give them pain Yet have not sought a Friend in Thee.
And none, O Lord! have perfect rest.
For none are wholly free from sin; And they who fain would serve Thee best
Are conscious most of wrong within.
O Saviour Christ! Thou too art man. Thou hast been troubled, tempted, tried,
Thy kind but searching glance can scan The very wounds that shame would hide.
Thy touch has still its ancient power.
No word from Thee can fruitless fall; Here in this solemn evening hour.
And in Thy mercy, heal us all.