Oh, what a morning

For our family devotions, we begin by singing a hymn or two from an old hymnbook I had gotten last year from ebay. It is very old, and I bought it so that I could remove pages from it, frame our favorites, and hang them on the wall. We have a wall of hymns in our dining room.

The only problem with that, is our hymnbooks are missing our favorites because they are no longer in the book!

Last week, John went to a local bookstore...the kind that smells like old books the moment you walk in. He purchased 3 matching hymnbooks, so the kids would have an easier time singing along.

The boys were so excited to get new hymnbooks!

This morning, Nolan wanted to go on the computer, and I thought to show him Cyber Hymnal. We sang several hymns together, and when I went to take my shower, he remained at the computer, singing his favorite hymns.

When I came back out this is what he said to me:
"Hey mommy! I have a great idea! How about we sing hymns ALL DAY LONG?!?"

What could I possibly have said other than:
"That sounds like a GREAT idea!"

Get ready for your heart to melt...

Introducing, my boys....singing their favorite hymns!

You see, last week, I heard Nolan singing in his bed...and I snuck up on him with my camera.

This is the result:


Then Gideon wanted in on the action...



Nolan wasn't quite done yet...


And then they both wanted to sing together...unfortunately, the battery on my camera died...


When Haddon heard what had taken place the night before, he tried his hand at it too...


How can your heart not completely melt when you hear this?

I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say

by Horatius Bonar

Born: De­cem­ber 19, 1808, Old Brough­ton, Ed­in­burgh, Scot­land.

Died: Ju­ly 31, 1889, Ed­in­burgh, Scot­land.

Buried: Can­on­gate church­yard.

Bonar has been called “the prince of Scot­tish hymn write­rs.” After grad­u­at­ing from the Un­i­ver­si­ty of Ed­in­burgh, he was or­dained in 1838, and be­came pas­tor of the North Par­ish, Kelso. He joined the Free Church of Scot­land af­ter the “Dis­rupt­ion” of 1843, and for a while edit­ed the church’s The Border Watch. Bonar re­mained in Kel­so for 28 years, af­ter which he moved to the Chal­mers Me­mor­i­al church in Edin­burgh, where he served the rest of his life. Bonar wrote more than 600 hymns. At a me­mor­i­al service fol­low­ing his death, his friend, Rev. E. H. Lundie, said:

His hymns were writ­ten in very var­ied cir­cum­stances, some­times timed by the tink­ling brook that bab­bled near him; some­times at­tuned to the or­dered tramp of the ocean, whose crest­ed waves broke on the beach by which he wan­dered; some­times set to the rude mu­sic of the rail­way train that hur­ried him to the scene of du­ty; some­times mea­sured by the si­lent rhy­thm of the mid­night stars that shone above him.

I heard the voice of Jesus say, “Come unto Me and rest;
Lay down, thou weary one, lay down Thy head upon My breast.”
I came to Jesus as I was, weary and worn and sad;
I found in Him a resting place, and He has made me glad.

I heard the voice of Jesus say, “Behold, I freely give
The living water; thirsty one, stoop down, and drink, and live.”
I came to Jesus, and I drank of that life giving stream;
My thirst was quenched, my soul revived, and now I live in Him.

I heard the voice of Jesus say, “I am this dark world’s Light;
Look unto Me, thy morn shall rise, and all thy day be bright.”
I looked to Jesus, and I found in Him my Star, my Sun;
And in that light of life I’ll walk, till traveling days are done.

Beneath the Cross of Jesus by Eliz­a­beth C. Cle­phane

Born: June 18, 1830, Ed­in­burgh, Scot­land.

Died: Feb­ru­a­ry 19, 1869, Bridg­end House, near Mel­rose, Rox­burgh­shire, Scot­land.

Buried: St. Cuth­bert’s, Ed­in­burgh, Scot­land.

These lines ex­press the ex­per­i­enc­es, the hopes and the long­ings of a young Christ­ian late­ly re­leased. Writ­ten on the ve­ry edge of life, with the bet­ter land ful­ly in view of faith, they seem to us foot­steps print­ed on the sands of time, where these sands touch the ocean of Etern­i­ty. These foot­prints of one whom the Good Shep­herd led through the wild­er­ness in­to rest, may, with God’s blessing, con­trib­ute to com­fort and di­rect suc­ceed­ing pilg­rims.

Beneath the cross of Jesus I fain would take my stand,
The shadow of a mighty rock within a weary land;
A home within the wilderness, a rest upon the way,
From the burning of the noontide heat, and the burden of the day.

O safe and happy shelter, O refuge tried and sweet,
O trysting place where Heaven’s love and Heaven’s justice meet!
As to the holy patriarch that wondrous dream was given,
So seems my Savior’s cross to me, a ladder up to heaven.

There lies beneath its shadow but on the further side
The darkness of an awful grave that gapes both deep and wide
And there between us stands the cross two arms outstretched to save
A watchman set to guard the way from that eternal grave.

Upon that cross of Jesus mine eye at times can see
The very dying form of One Who suffered there for me;
And from my stricken heart with tears two wonders I confess;
The wonders of redeeming love and my unworthiness.

I take, O cross, thy shadow for my abiding place;
I ask no other sunshine than the sunshine of His face;
Content to let the world go by to know no gain or loss,
My sinful self my only shame, my glory all the cross.

Whate'er My God Ordains is Right by Samuel Rodigast 1676

Born: Oc­to­ber 19, 1649, Gro­ben, Ger­ma­ny.

Died: March 29, 1708, Ber­lin, Ger­ma­ny.

Buried: Kloster Kirche, Berlin, Ger­ma­ny.

Son of a Luth­e­ran min­is­ter, Rod­i­gast at­tend­ed the Un­i­ver­si­ty of Je­na (MA 1671), then joined the phil­o­so­phy fa­cul­ty there. In 1680, he be­came con­rec­tor at the Grey­fri­ars Gym­na­si­um in Ber­lin. He de­clined ap­point­ments as a pro­fess­or at the Un­i­ver­si­ty of Je­na and rec­tor at schools in Stade and Stral­sund, choos­ing to stay in Ber­lin.

This song was translated from Ger­man to Eng­lish by Ca­ther­ine Wink­worth, 1863, and others. Rod­i­gast wrote this hymn to cheer his friend Gas­tor­i­us, pre­cent­or at Je­na, who had b­ecome ser­i­ous­ly ill. Gas­tor­i­us not on­ly re­cov­ered, but went on to write the tune for Rod­i­gast’s words.

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
His holy will abideth;
I will be still whate’er He doth;
And follow where He guideth;
He is my God; though dark my road,
He holds me that I shall not fall:
Wherefore to Him I leave it all.

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He never will deceive me;
He leads me by the proper path:
I know He will not leave me.
I take, content, what He hath sent;
His hand can turn my griefs away,
And patiently I wait His day.

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
His loving thought attends me;
No poison can be in the cup
That my Physician sends me.
My God is true; each morn anew
I’ll trust His grace unending,
My life to Him commending.

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He is my Friend and Father;
He suffers naught to do me harm,
Though many storms may gather,
Now I may know both joy and woe,
Some day I shall see clearly
That He hath loved me dearly.

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Though now this cup, in drinking,
May bitter seem to my faint heart,
I take it, all unshrinking.
My God is true; each morn anew
Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,
And pain and sorrow shall depart.

Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Here shall my stand be taken;
Though sorrow, need, or death be mine,
Yet I am not forsaken.
My Father’s care is round me there;
He holds me that I shall not fall:
And so to Him I leave it all.

I wonder as I wander...an old Applachian carol

Sources differ as to the early history of the carol, although its collection is attributed to folk singer, John Jacob Niles. He claimed to have composed the piece in 1933, influenced by three lines of a folk song sung to him by a girl while working as a surveyor in Appalachia.

John Jacob Niles (b. Louisville, Kentucky, April 28, 1892; d. Lexington, Kentucky, March 1, 1980) was an American composer, singer, and collector of traditional ballads. Called the "Dean of American Balladeers"[1], Niles was an important influence on the American folk music revival of the 1950s and 1960s, with Joan Baez, Burl Ives, and Peter, Paul and Mary, among others, recording his songs.

I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die,
For poor orn'ry people like you and like I,
I wonder as I wander, ... out under the sky;


When Mary birthed Jesus 'twas in a cow's stall,
With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all,
And high from God's heaven a star's light did fall,
And the promise of the ages, ... they then did recall;


If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing,
A star in the sky or a bird on the wing,
Or all of God's angels in heaven to sing,
He surely could've had it... 'cause he was the King

O Holy Night by Pla­cide Cap­peau, 1847

Born: Oc­to­ber 25, 1808, Roque­maure, France.

Died: Au­gust 8, 1877, Roque­maure, France.

Cappeau, who lost a hand in a fire­arms ac­ci­dent at age eight, was a wine mer­chant and may­or of Roque­maure. He wrote po­e­try for his own en­joy­ment.

This song was originally written in French and translated to English by John Sullivan Dwight.

This is said to have been the first mu­sic ev­er broad­cast over a ra­dio.

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!
O night, O holy night, O night divine!

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming,
Here came the wise men from Orient land.
The King of kings lay thus in lowly manger,
In all our trials born to be our Friend!
He knows our need—to our weakness is no stranger.
Behold your King; before Him lowly bend!
Behold your King; before Him lowly bend!

Truly He taught us to love one another;
His law is love and His Gospel is peace.
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother
And in His Name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
Let all within us praise His holy Name!
Christ is the Lord! O praise His name forever!
His pow’r and glory evermore proclaim!
His pow’r and glory evermore proclaim!

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

This song was written by an unknown author, possibly in the 12th century. It was translated to English by John Neale in 1851. The original translation started: "Draw nigh, Draw nigh, Emmanuel".

The lyrics echo a num­ber of pro­phet­ic themes. The ti­tle comes from the well known Isai­ah 7:14: “Be­hold, a vir­gin shall con­ceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Im­man­u­el.” Im­man­u­el is He­brew for “God with us.” The “Rod of Jesse” refers to Isai­ah 11:1: “There shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jes­se”; Jesse was the fa­ther of Da­vid, se­cond king of Is­ra­el. “Day-Spring” comes from Za­cha­ri­as, fa­ther of John the Bap­tist, in Luke 1:78: “The day­spring from on high has vis­it­ed us.” “Thou Key of Da­vid” is in Isai­ah 22:22: “The key of the house of Da­vid will I lay up­on his shoul­der,” which in turn re­fers to Isai­ah 9:6 “The gov­ern­ment shall be up­on His shoul­der.”

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.

Refrain

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Wisdom from on high,
Who orderest all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
And teach us in her ways to go.

Refrain

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan’s tyranny;
From depths of hell Thy people save,
And give them victory over the grave.

Refrain

O come, Thou Day-spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.

Refrain

O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.

Refrain

O come, O come, great Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes on Sinai’s height
In ancient times once gave the law
In cloud and majesty and awe.

Refrain

O come, Thou Root of Jesse’s tree,
An ensign of Thy people be;
Before Thee rulers silent fall;
All peoples on Thy mercy call.

Refrain

O come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease,
And be Thyself our King of Peace.

Refrain

Joy to the World by Isaac Watts

(It seems like I'm always a day late on these hymns lately! Sorry!)

"Joy to the World" is one of the best-known and best-loved of Christmas carols. It contains a message of joy and love replacing sin and sorrow. It may also be interpreted to be about life after the second coming of Christ. The hymn is significant for its widespread use throughout Christian denominations and for the musical stature of the people who created it.

The scripture-based words are by Isaac Watts. The music was adapted and arranged by Lowell Mason from an older melody which was then believed to have originated from Handel; not least because the theme of the refrain (And heaven and nature sing...) appears in the orchestra opening and accompaniment of the recitative Comfort Ye from Handel's Messiah, and the first four notes match the beginning of the choruses Lift up your heads and Glory to God from the same oratorio. However, Handel did not compose the entire tune.

Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing.

Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy.

No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.

He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders, wonders, of His love.

When I Survey the Wondrous Cross by Isaac Watts

Born: Ju­ly 17, 1674, South­amp­ton, Eng­land.

Died: No­vem­ber 25, 1748, Stoke New­ing­ton, Eng­land.

Buried: Bun­hill Fields Cem­etery, Lon­don, Eng­land.John Bun­yan, Jo­seph Hart John Rip­pon,

& Will­iam Shrub­sole lie near­by.

Charles Wesley once said that would give up all his other hymns to have written this one.

Watts’ fa­ther was Non­con­form­ist im­pris­oned twice for his re­li­gious views. Isaac learned Greek, Latin, and He­brew un­der Mr. Pin­horn, Rec­tor of All Saints, and head­mas­ter of the Gram­mar School in South­amp­ton. Isaac’s taste for verse showed it­self in ear­ly child­hood, and his prom­ise caused a lo­cal doc­tor and other friends to of­fer him a un­i­ver­si­ty ed­u­ca­tion, as­sum­ing he would be or­dained in the Church of Eng­land. How­ev­er, Isaac de­clined and in­stead en­tered a Non­con­for­mist Acad­e­my at Stoke New­ing­ton in 1690, un­der the care of Thom­as Rowe, pas­tor of the In­de­pen­dent cong­re­ga­tion at Gir­dlers’ Hall; Isaac joined this con­gre­ga­tion in 1693.

Watts left the Acad­e­my at age 20 and spent two years at home; it was dur­ing this per­i­od that he wrote the bulk of his Hymns and Spir­it­u­al Songs. They were sung from man­uscripts in the South­amp­ton Cha­pel, and pub­lished 1707-1709.

The next six years of his life were again spent at Stoke New­ing­ton, work­ing as tu­tor to the son of em­i­nent Pur­i­tan John Har­topp. The in­tense stu­dy of these years is re­flect­ed in the the­o­log­ic­al and phil­o­soph­ic­al ma­ter­i­al he sub­se­quent­ly pub­lished.

Watts preached his first ser­mon at age 24. In the next three years, he preached fre­quent­ly, and in 1702 was or­dained as pas­tor of the In­de­pen­dent con­gre­ga­tion in Mark Lane. At that time he moved in­to the house of a Mr. Hollis in the Mi­nor­ies. His health be­gan to fail the next year, and Sam­u­el Price was ap­point­ed as his as­sist­ant in the min­is­try. In 1712, a fe­ver shat­tered his con­sti­tu­tion, and Price be­came co-pas­tor of the con­gre­ga­tion, which had moved to a new cha­pel in Bu­ry Street. It was at this time that Isaac be­came the guest of Sir Thom­as Ab­ney. He lived with Ab­ney (and lat­er Abney’s wi­dow) the rest of his life, main­ly at The­o­balds in Hert­ford­shire, then for 13 years at Stoke New­ing­ton.

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.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.

See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

His dying crimson, like a robe,
Spreads o’er His body on the tree;
Then I am dead to all the globe,
And all the globe is dead to me.

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

[Added by the compilers of Hymns An­cient and Mo­dern]

To Christ, who won for sinners grace
By bitter grief and anguish sore,
Be praise from all the ransomed race
Forever and forevermore.

Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted by Thomas Kelly

Born: Ju­ly 13, 1769, Kellyville, Strad­bal­ly, Queens Coun­ty, Ire­land.

Died: May 14, 1855, Dub­lin, Ire­land.

Buried: Near the Kel­ly fam­i­ly home at Kel­ly­ville, Bal­ly­ad­ams, Queens Coun­ty


Son of a judge, Kelly at­tend­ed Trin­i­ty Coll­ege (BA 1789) and planned to be a law­yer. Af­ter con­vert­ing to Christ, though, his ca­reer plans changed to the min­is­try. He be­came an Ang­li­can priest in 1792, but event­u­al­ly be­came one of the fa­mous “dis­sent­ing” min­is­ters. He wrote over 760 hymns. Mil­ler’s Sing­ers of the Church (1869) says of him:

"Mr. Kelly was a man of great and var­ied learn­ing, skilled in the Or­i­ent­al tongues, and an ex­cel­lent Bi­ble cri­tic. He was pos­sessed al­so of mu­sic­al tal­ent, and com­posed and pub­lished a work that was re­ceived with fa­vour, con­sist­ing of mu­sic adapt­ed to ev­ery form of me­tre in his hymn-book. Na­tur­al­ly of an am­i­a­ble dis­po­si­tion and tho­rough in his Christ­ian pi­e­ty, Mr. Kel­ly be­came the friend of good men, and the ad­vo­cate of ev­ery worthy, be­ne­vo­lent, and re­li­gious cause. He was ad­mired alike for his zeal and his hu­mil­i­ty; and his lib­er­al­ity found am­ple scope in Ire­land, es­pe­cial­ly dur­ing the year of fam­ine."

Stricken, smitten, and afflicted,
See Him dying on the tree!
’Tis the Christ by man rejected;
Yes, my soul, ’tis He, ’tis He!
’Tis the long expected prophet,
David’s Son, yet David’s Lord;
Proofs I see sufficient of it:
’Tis a true and faithful Word.

Tell me, ye who hear Him groaning,
Was there ever grief like His?
Friends through fear His cause disowning,
Foes insulting his distress:
Many hands were raised to wound Him,
None would interpose to save;
But the deepest stroke that pierced Him
Was the stroke that Justice gave.

Ye who think of sin but lightly,
Nor suppose the evil great,
Here may view its nature rightly,
Here its guilt may estimate.
Mark the Sacrifice appointed!
See Who bears the awful load!
’Tis the Word, the Lord’s Anointed,
Son of Man, and Son of God.

Here we have a firm foundation,
Here the refuge of the lost.
Christ the Rock of our salvation,
Christ the Name of which we boast.
Lamb of God for sinners wounded!
Sacrifice to cancel guilt!
None shall ever be confounded
Who on Him their hope have built.

Amazing Grace by John Newton

Born: Ju­ly 24, 1725, Lon­don, Eng­land.

Died: De­cem­ber 21, 1807, Lon­don, Eng­land.

Buried: Orig­in­al­ly at St. Ma­ry Wool­noth Church, Lom­bard Street, Lon­don.

In 1893, New­ton and his wife Ma­ry were re­in­terred in the south­east cor­ner of the grave­yard at St. Pe­ter and St. Paul’s Church, Ol­ney.

This is prob­ab­ly the most pop­u­lar hymn in the Eng­lish lan­guage. Per­haps it is be­cause its words so well de­scribe the au­thor: John New­ton was a slave trad­er be­fore com­ing to Christ. It was sung at the fun­er­al of Amer­i­can pre­si­dent Ron­ald Rea­gan.

Newton’s mo­ther died when he was sev­en years old. At age 11, with but two years school­ing and on­ly a rud­i­men­tary know­ledge of Latin, John went to sea with his fa­ther. His life at sea was filled with won­der­ful es­capes, viv­id dreams, and a sail­or’s reck­less­ness. He grew into a god­less and aban­doned man. He was once flogged as a de­sert­er from the na­vy, and for 15 months lived, half starved and ill treated, as a slave in Africa.

A chance read­ing of Thom­as à Kemp­is sowed the seed of his con­ver­sion. It was ac­cel­er­at­ed by a night spent steer­ing a wa­ter­logged ship in the face of ap­par­ent death. He was then 23 years old. Over the next six years, dur­ing which he com­mand­ed a slave ship, his faith ma­tured. He spent the next nine years most­ly in Li­ver­pool, stu­dy­ing He­brew and Greek and ming­ling with White­field, Wes­ley, and the Non­con­form­ists. He was even­tu­al­ly or­dained, and be­came cur­ate at Ol­ney, Buck­ing­ham­shire, in 1764. It was at Ol­ney that he formed a life long friend­ship with Wil­liam Cow­per, and pro­duced the Ol­ney Hymns.

A mar­ble plaque at St. Mary Wool­noth car­ried the epi­taph which New­ton him­self wrote:

JOHN NEWTON,

ClerkOnce an infidel and libertine

A servant of slaves in Africa,Was,

by the rich mercy of our Lord and SaviourJESUS CHRIST,

restored, pardoned, and ap­point­ed to preach

the Gospel which he had long laboured to destroy.

He min­is­tered,Near sixteen years in Ol­ney, in Bucks,

And twenty-eight years in this Church.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found;

Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,

And grace my fears relieved;

How precious did that grace appear

The hour I first believed!

Through many dangers, toils and snares,

I have already come;

’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,

His Word my hope secures;

He will my Shield and Portion be,

As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

And mortal life shall cease,

I shall possess, within the veil,

A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,

The sun forbear to shine;

But God, who called me here below,

Will be forever mine.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,

Bright shining as the sun,

We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise

Than when we’d first begun.

More Love to Thee, O Christ by Elizabeth Prentiss, 1856

Born: Oc­to­ber 26, 1818, Port­land, Maine.

Died: Au­gust 13, 1878, Dor­set, Ver­mont.

Buried: Dor­set, Ver­mont.

She wrote these words dur­ing a per­i­od of ill­ness, but kept them to her­self. When she showed them to her hus­band 13 years lat­er, he en­cour­aged her to pub­lish them. How­ard Doane saw the re­sult­ing pamph­let, and wrote mu­sic for the words.

Her father, Edward Payson, was the senior pastor of the Congregational Church at Portland, ME. He remained there until his death in 1827.

More love to Thee, O Christ, more love to Thee!

Hear Thou the prayer I make on bended knee.

This is my earnest plea: More love, O Christ, to Thee;

More love to Thee, more love to Thee!

Once earthly joy I craved, sought peace and rest;

Now Thee alone I seek, give what is best.

This all my prayer shall be: More love, O Christ to Thee;

More love to Thee, more love to Thee!

Let sorrow do its work, come grief or pain;

Sweet are Thy messengers, sweet their refrain,

When they can sing with me: More love, O Christ, to Thee;

More love to Thee, more love to Thee!

Then shall my latest breath whisper Thy praise;

This be the parting cry my heart shall raise;

This still its prayer shall be: More love, O Christ to Thee;

More love to Thee, more love to Thee!

Holy, Holy, Holy by Reginald Heber

Born: Ap­ril 21, 1783, Ma­lpas, Che­shire, Eng­land.

Died: Ap­ril 3, 1826, Tri­chin­o­po­ly (Tir­u­chir­ap­pal­li), Ta­mil Na­du, In­dia, of a ce­reb­ral hem­or­rhage while bath­ing.

Buried: St. John’s Church, Tri­chin­o­po­ly, Tam­il Nadu, In­dia (north side of the al­tar).

Heber at­tend­ed Brase­nose Coll­ege, Ox­ford, where he won a num­ber of awards in Eng­lish and La­tin. He re­ceived a fel­low­ship to All Souls Coll­ege, and lat­er be­came Rec­tor at Hod­net, Shrop­shire, Eng­land. In 1823, he be­came, some­what re­luct­ant­ly, Bi­shop of Cal­cut­ta, In­dia. Most of his hymns were not pub­lished un­til af­ter his death; 57 of them ap­peared in Hymns Writ­ten and Adapt­ed to the Week­ly Church Ser­vice of the Year (Lon­don: J. Mur­ray, 1827).

Holy, holy, holy Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee;
Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!
God in three Persons, blessèd Trinity!

Holy, holy, holy! All the saints adore Thee,
Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;
Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee,
Who was, and is, and evermore shall be.

Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide Thee,
Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see;
Only Thou art holy; there is none beside Thee,
Perfect in power, in love, and purity.

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!
All Thy works shall praise Thy Name, in earth, and sky, and sea;
Holy, holy, holy; merciful and mighty!
God in three Persons, blessèd Trinity!

Hallelujah! What a Savior by Phil­ip P. Bliss

Born: Ju­ly 9, 1838, Clear­field Coun­ty, Penn­syl­van­ia.

Died: De­cem­ber 29, 1876, Ash­ta­bu­la, Ohio. Bliss and his wife died in a tra­gic train wreck caused by a bridge col­lapse. He sur­vived the in­i­tial im­pact, but went back in­to the flames in an un­suc­ces­sful at­tempt to res­cue his wife.

Buried: The re­mains re­trieved from the Ash­ta­bu­la dis­as­ter were placed in a com­mon grave marked by a cen­o­taph in the Ash­ta­bu­la Cem­e­te­ry. A cen­o­taph in mem­o­ry of the Bliss­es was al­so erect­ed in the cem­e­tery at Rome, Penn­syl­vania, Ju­ly 17, 1877.

The night be­fore that ter­ri­ble rail­road ac­ci­dent at Ash­ta­bu­la…he said to his au­di­ence, “I may not pass this way again”; then he sang a so­lo, “I’m Go­ing Home To­mor­row.” This in­deed proved pro­phe­tic of his own home go­ing.

Written…short­ly before his death, this was the last hymn I heard Mr. Bliss sing. It was at a meet­ing in Far­well Hall in Chi­ca­go [Il­li­nois], con­duct­ed by Hen­ry Moore­house. A few weeks be­fore his death Mr. Bliss vis­it­ed the State pri­son at Jack­son, Mi­chi­gan, where, af­ter a ve­ry touch­ing ad­dress on “The Man of Sor­rows,” he sang this hymn with great ef­fect. Ma­ny of the pri­son­ers dat­ed their con­ver­sion from that day.

When Mr. Moo­dy and I were in Par­is, hold­ing meet­ings in the old church which
Na­pol­e­on had grant­ed to the Evan­gel­ic­als, I fre­quent­ly sang this hymn as a so­lo, ask­ing the con­gre­ga­tion to join in the sin­gle phrase, “Hal­le­lu­jah, what a Sav­iour,” which they did with splen­did ef­fect. It is said that the word “Hal­le­lu­jah” is the same in all lan­guag­es. It seems as though God had pre­pared it for the great ju­bi­lee of hea­ven, when all his child­ren shall have been ga­thered home to sing “Hal­le­lu­jah to the Lamb!”

Ira David Sankey

Man of Sorrows! what a name
For the Son of God, who came
Ruined sinners to reclaim.
Hallelujah! What a Savior!

Bearing shame and scoffing rude,
In my place condemned He stood;
Sealed my pardon with His blood.
Hallelujah! What a Savior!


Guilty, vile, and helpless we;
Spotless Lamb of God was He;
“Full atonement!” can it be?
Hallelujah! What a Savior!


Lifted up was He to die;
“It is finished!” was His cry;
Now in Heav’n exalted high.
Hallelujah! What a Savior!


When He comes, our glorious
King,All His ransomed home to bring,
Then anew His song we’ll sing:
Hallelujah! What a Savior!

Come on, My Partners In Distress by Charles Wesley, 1749

Charles Wesley wrote over 6,000 hymns. Like most hymn­ists, his works were fre­quent­ly al­tered. In the pre­face to the 1779 Col­lection of Hymns for the Use of the Peo­ple called Meth­od­ists, his bro­ther John wrote:

I beg leave to men­tion a thought which has been long up­on my mind, and which I should long ago have in­sert­ed in the pub­lic pa­pers, had I not been un­will­ing to stir up a nest of horn­ets. Ma­ny gen­tle­men have done my bro­ther and me (though with­out nam­ing us) the hon­our to re­print ma­ny of our hymns. Now they are per­fect­ly wel­come to do so, pro­vid­ed they print them just as they are. But I de­sire they would not at­tempt to mend them, for they are real­ly not able. None of them is able to mend ei­ther the sense or the verse. There­fore, I must beg of them these two fa­vours: ei­ther to let them stand just as they are, to take things for bet­ter or worse, or to add the true read­ing in the mar­gin, or at the bot­tom of the page, that we may no long­er be ac­count­a­ble ei­ther for the non­sense or for the dog­ger­el of other men.

Come on, my partners in distress,
My comrades through the wilderness,
Who still your bodies feel;
Awhile forget your griefs and fears,
And look beyond the vale of tears,
To that celestial hill.

Beyond the bounds of time and space,
Look forward to that happy place,
The saints’ secure abode;
On faith’s strong eagle pinions rise,
And force your passage to the skies,
And scale the mount of God.

See where the Lamb in glory stands,
Encircled with His radiant bands,
And join the angelic powers.
For all that height of glorious bliss,
Our everlasting portion is,
And all that Heaven is ours.

Who suffer with our Master here,
We shall before His face appear
And by His side sit down;
To patient faith the prize is sure,
And all that to the end endure
The cross, shall wear the crown.

Thrice blessèd, bliss-inspiring hope!
It lifts the fainting spirits up,
It brings to life the dead;
Our conflicts here shall soon be past,
And you and I ascend at last,
Triumphant with our Head.

That great mysterious Deity
We soon with open face shall see;
The beatific sight
Shall fill the heavenly courts with praise,
And wide diffuse the golden blaze
Of everlasting light.

The Father shining on His throne,
The glorious co-eternal Son,
The Spirit one and seven,
Conspire our rapture to complete;
And lo! we fall before His feet,
And silence heightens Heaven.

In hope of that ecstatic pause,
Jesus, we now sustain Thy cross,
And at Thy footstool fall,
’Till Thou our hidden life reveal,
’Till Thou our ravished spirits fill,
And God is all in all.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness by Thom­as O. Chis­holm

George Beverly Shea says that this hymn was first introduced in Great Britain in 1954 during the Billy Graham Crusades.

William Runyan whore wrote the tune for the hymn writes this:

This particular poem held such an appeal that I prayed most earnestly that my tune might carry over its message in a worthy way, and the subsequent history of its use indicates that God answered prayer. It was written in Baldwin, Kansas in 1923 and was first published in my private song pamphlets.

It is the un­of­fi­cial “school hymn” of Moo­dy Bi­ble In­sti­tute in Chi­ca­go, with which Run­yan was as­so­ci­at­ed for a num­ber of years.

The author Thomas Obadiah Chisholm had a poor start in life. Born in 1866 in a log cabin in Kentucky on July 29th. He went to the local country schoolhouse and there he stayed for many years, becoming at the age of sixteen a teacher in the same school without ever having left it. In 1887 he became editor of the local paper. And six years later at the age of 28 he became a Christian. Poor health dogged him all his days, he spent only a brief period as a Methodist Minister before having to give up, and he spent the remainder of his working life as a Life insurance agent in New Jersey. He retired in 1953 and lived until his death in 1960 in the Methodist Home for the Aged, Ocean Grove, New Jersey.

In a letter dated 1941 he writes:

"My income has not been large at any time due to impaired health in the earlier years which has followed me until now. Although I must not fail to record here the unfailing faithfulness of a covenant keeping God and that He has given me many wonderful displays of His providing care, for which I am filled with astonishing gratefulness."

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee;
Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not;
As Thou hast been, Thou forever will be.

Refrain

Great is Thy faithfulness!Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
Sun, moon and stars in their courses above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.

Refrain

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

Refrain

Blessed Assurance by Fanny Crosby

Born: March 24, 1820, Put­nam Coun­ty, New York.

Died: Feb­ru­a­ry 12, 1915, Bridge­port, Con­nec­ti­cut.

Buried: Bridge­port, Con­nec­ti­cut.

Fanny Crosby was prob­ab­ly the most pro­lif­ic hymn­ist in his­to­ry. Though blind­ed by an in­com­pe­tent doc­tor at six weeks of age, she wrote over 8,000 hymns.

About her blind­ness, she said:

It seemed intend­ed by the bless­ed prov­i­dence of God that I should be blind all my life, and I thank him for the dis­pen­sa­tion. If per­fect earth­ly sight were of­fered me to­mor­row I would not ac­cept it. I might not have sung hymns to the praise of God if I had been dis­tract­ed by the beau­ti­ful and in­ter­est­ing things about me.

In her life­time, Fan­ny Cros­by was one of the best known wo­men in the Unit­ed States. To this day, the vast ma­jor­i­ty of Amer­i­can hymn­als con­tain her work.

When Fanny died, her tomb­stone car­ried the words, “Aunt Fan­ny” and “Bless­ed as­sur­ance, Jesus is mine. Oh, what a fore­taste of glo­ry di­vine.”

Blessèd assurance, Jesus is mine!

O what a foretaste of glory divine!

Heir of salvation, purchase of God,

Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.

Refrain

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my Savior, all the day long;

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my Savior, all the day long.

Perfect submission, perfect delight,

Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;

Angels descending bring from above

Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

Refrain

Perfect submission, all is at rest

I in my Savior am happy and blest,

Watching and waiting, looking above,

Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

Refrain

Nothing But The Blood by Robert Lowry (1876)

Born: March 12, 1826, Phil­a­del­phia, Penn­syl­van­ia.

Died: No­vem­ber 25, 1899, Plain­field, New Jer­sey.

Buried: Hill­side Cem­e­tery, Plain­field, New Jer­sey.

Lowry at­tend­ed the Un­i­ver­si­ty at Lew­isb­urg (later re­named Buck­nell Un­i­ver­si­ty), where he be­came a pro­fess­or of lit­er­a­ture. He was or­dained as a Bap­tist min­is­ter and pas­tored at West Ches­ter, Penn­syl­van­ia; Bloom­ing­dale Bap­tist Church, New York Ci­ty; Han­son Place Bap­tist Church, Brook­lyn, New York; First Bap­tist Church, Lew­is­burg, Penn­syl­vania; and Park Ave­nue Bap­tist Church, Plain­field, New Jer­sey. He al­so worked as a mu­sic ed­i­tor at the Big­low Pub­lish­ing Com­pa­ny, and helped found the Sixth Av­e­nue Bap­tist Church in New York Ci­ty. He wrote about 500 Gos­pel tunes and edited many volumes of hymns.

What can wash away my sin?

Nothing but the blood of Jesus;

What can make me whole again?

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Refrain

Oh! precious is the flow

That makes me white as snow;

No other fount I know,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

For my pardon, this I see,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus;

For my cleansing this my plea,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Refrain

Nothing can for sin atone,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus;

Naught of good that I have done,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Refrain

This is all my hope and peace,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus;

This is all my righteousness,

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Refrain

Now by this I’ll overcome—

Nothing but the blood of Jesus,

Now by this I’ll reach my home—

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Refrain

Glory! Glory! This I sing—

Nothing but the blood of Jesus,

All my praise for this I bring—

Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Refrain

Awake, My Soul, And With The Sun

Ken wrote this hymn at a time when the es­tab­lished church be­lieved on­ly Script­ure should be sung as hymns—with an em­pha­sis on the Psalms. Some con­sid­ered it sin­ful and blas­phe­mous to write new lyr­ics for church mu­sic, akin to ad­ding to the Script­ures. In that at­mo­sphere, Ken wrote this and sev­er­al other hymns for the boys at Win­chest­er Col­lege, with strict in­struct­ions that they use them on­ly in their rooms, for pri­vate de­vo­tions. Iron­ic­al­ly, the last stan­za has come into wide­spread use as the Dox­ol­o­gy, per­haps the most fr­equent­ly used piece of mu­sic in pub­lic wor­ship. At Ken’s request, the hymn was sung at his fun­er­al, fit­tingly held at sun­rise.

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.


Thy precious time misspent, redeem,
Each present day thy last esteem,
Improve thy talent with due care;
For the great day thyself prepare.


By influence of the Light divine
Let thy own light to others shine.
Reflect all Heaven’s propitious ways
In ardent love, and cheerful praise.


In conversation be sincere;
Keep conscience as the noontide clear;
Think how all seeing God thy ways
And all thy secret thoughts surveys.


Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart,
And with the angels bear thy part,
Who all night long unwearied sing
High praise to the eternal King.


All praise to Thee, who safe has kept
And hast refreshed me while I sleptGrant,
Lord, when I from death shall wake
I may of endless light partake.


Heav’n is, dear Lord, where’er
Thou art,O never then from me depart;
For to my soul ’tis hell to be
But for one moment void of Thee.


Lord, I my vows to Thee renew;
Disperse my sins as morning dew.
Guard my first springs of thought and will,
And with Thyself my spirit fill.


Direct, control, suggest, this day,
All I design, or do, or say,
That all my powers, with all their might,
In Thy sole glory may unite.


I would not wake nor rise again
And Heaven itself I would disdain,
Wert Thou not there to be enjoyed,
And I in hymns to be employed.


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.