Today’s entry I devote to all and any of our readers for whom the world doesn’t always seem bright and chipper, and who ought to know that in those feelings they don’t usually share with others, they have a fellow traveler — and, more than that, the same Christ who waits to greet them as he greets their happier comrades.
The author of our Hymn of the Week, William Cowper, deserves a place of honor in the hearts of all English-speaking Christians who love to sing hymns, psalms, and spiritual songs. All the more, I think, because Cowper was like his friend and coadjutor John Newton in this regard: he knew what it was to suffer. Much of Newton’s suffering was the result of youthful folly, hardness of heart, and the scandalous and soul-destroying evil of the slave trade. Cowper led no such tumultuous life on the high seas. His tumults came from within, in longings, sorrow, and terrible doubts about his own salvation; but then the mercy of God would break upon his soul like the morning sun to scatter the night. Newton was by far the better preacher, tireless and brave. Cowper was by far the better poet, and the sweeter man. But both men had their spiritual voyages to make.
When Newton and Cowper published their famous Olney Hymns, in three volumes, the great majority of them were Newton’s, but Cowper contributed about 60, and among them are true gems. Here I’d like to quote the evaluation of another fine author of hymns, James Montgomery, the editor of one of the book’s many later printings. I quote him not only for his appreciation of Cowper’s genius, but for his heartfelt and passionate hope that this man who seemed in his last years to be covered in darkness was greeted on the other side of eternity by the light of Christ:
"Of Cowper’s share in this work, little need be said. Those may disparage the poetry of his Hymns, who hate and despise the doctrines of the Gospel. They are worthy of him, and honorable to his Christian profession. These first-fruits of his Muse, after she had been baptized — but we must drop the fictitious being, and say after he had been baptized ‘with the Holy Spirit and with fire,’ will ever be precious (independent of their other merits), as the transcripts of his happiest feelings, the memorials of his walk with God, and his daily experience (amidst conflicts and discouragements) of the consoling power of that religion, in which he had found peace, and often enjoyed peace to a degree that passed understanding. On the other hand, it is a heart-withering reflection, that his mightier works of genius — the poems by which he commands universal admiration — though they breathe the soul of purest, humblest, holiest piety, and might have been written amidst the clear shining of the Sun of Righteousness, arisen on him with healing in his wings,— were yet composed in darkness like that of the valley of the shadow of death. While the tempted poet sang the privileges, the duties, and the blessedness of the Christian,— he himself had lost all, except the remembrance that he once possessed it, and the bitter, insane, and invincible conviction, that for him there was no hope, “either in this life or in the life to come.” Under this frightful delusion, in its last effect, for several years, even his intellectual being was absorbed, till the disordered body fell into dust, and the soul returned to God who gave it. Oh! when that veil of horror, with the veil of flesh, was taken away, and the enfranchised captive emerged in the invisible world, may we not hope that, like dying Stephen, on this side of eternity, he, on the other, saw heaven opened, with Jesus standing at the right hand of God — may we not believe, that he could then and there exclaim, like that first triumphant martyr, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!””
I’ll add nothing to those words.
Debra loves the Scottish Festival Singers, and this rendition shows why. Notice the soloist singing stanza 4 — perfect, beautiful, solemn, and hopeful.
O for a closer walk with God, A calm and heavenly frame; A light to shine upon the road That leads me to the Lamb! Where is the blessedness I knew When first I sought the Lord? Where is the soul-refreshing view Of Jesus and his word? What peaceful hours I then enjoyed! How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill. Return, O holy Dove, return, Sweet messenger of rest; I hate the sins that made thee mourn, And drove thee from my breast. The dearest idol I have known, Whate'er that idol be, Help me to tear it from thy throne, And worship only thee. So shall my walk be close with God, Calm and serene my frame; So purer light shall mark the road That leads me to the Lamb.
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How would the poet have pronounced “frame” and “lamb” so that they rhymed? Or is it just an imperfect rhyme?