The more I learn of English hymn writers of the nineteenth century, the more I stand abashed — the learning, the broad human experiences, the Christian action in the world, the devotion to God! And yet I’m delighted to find I that I do have a few things in common with Edward Hayes Plumptre, the author of our Hymn of the Week, “Thine Arm, O Lord.” My first love was mathematics, and young Edward was the sole winner of a double first-class at Oxford in that beautiful world of pure intellectual play. I don’t know to what extent Plumptre continued to work in mathematics, but it seems to have remained a strong interest of his, because in 1866 and 1867 he was the Boyle Lecturer, speaking on Christ and Christendom; the Boyle lectures were endowed by Robert Boyle, the father of modern chemistry, and were intended to discuss the relationship between the Christian faith and what we now call science.
Plumptre was a lover of languages ancient and modern, and among the poets he translated into English verse, there’s a Florentine you’ll have heard of, an irascible fellow named Dante. (I don’t have a copy of his translation, so I can’t tell you how good it is.) And then there’s the man’s own poetry. In Lazarus and Other Poems (1864), he assumes the voices of people, fictional and historical, who lived at the time of Christ, and that’s what I’ve been doing in the poetic vein for the last several years, in The Hundredfold, and in a massive work I’m finishing up, called The Twelve-Gated City.
The chief poem in Plumptre’s work, “Lazarus,” does bear upon our Hymn of the Week. The hymn celebrates the power of Christ to heal, and that’s what “Lazarus” is about, but not just in the way you expect — the raising of Lazarus from the dead. For the poem tells the story of a young disciple of Saint John, who fell away from the faith into a life of wealth, lust, treachery, and despair. He’s back on the right path now, but his soul, shall we say, is still reeling and rickety, and so the elder of Ephesus has sent him to Palestine to seek an old man named Eleazar — in Plumptre’s telling, both the wealthy Lazarus whom Jesus raised, and the Lazarus of Jesus’ parable, the poor and sickly man who ate of the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table. Lazarus, you see, needed to be raised from the dead in more ways than one. And in our hymn this week, Plumptre has in mind the sickness that afflicts the body, and the more subtle and dangerous sickness that afflicts the soul.
The third stanza of the hymn is left out of most hymnals, but it’s the one that makes sense of the poem. The idea is this: Jesus is not among us in the flesh to heal us by a “touch, or word, or look,” so those who take up the task of healing, that is, those men of science we call physicians, must read God’s laws in the book of nature. I don’t think for a moment that Plumptre is suggesting that God will not heal the body in answer to prayer! But he calls upon God to grant “wisdom’s heavenly lore” to the hands and the eyes of our doctors, and to do what no earthly doctor can do, which is to “heal the sick man’s soul.” For we are all in need of that.
And shall we all be healed? The young man, with strands of early gray on his troubled temples, wonders about that. But the saint who was raised from the dead ends his counsel, and the poem, with words that strengthen and comfort. “Judge thou thyself,” says Lazarus, “And leave the greater task to greater power.” Commit your kin, your friends, your enemies, and people who will walk the earth in years to come, all “To Him who sitteth on the eternal throne, / The Son of Man, and yet the Lord of all, / The Judge, the Priest, the Saviour, and the Friend.” How can we gauge his wrath? How can we fathom his infinite love? So when you are uneasy in your mind, says that Lazarus who saw behind the veil of death, you should “cling to the Cross for shelter.” “Be silent and adore” — the final words of the poem. Not bad, old man; not bad at all. May we then, as the end of the hymn puts it, “whole and sick, and weak and strong,” praise God forevermore.
Today’s hymn sung by St. Paul’s Episcopal Church Choir, Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Thine arm, O Lord, in days of old Was strong to heal and save; It triumphed o'er disease and death, O'er darkness and the grave. To Thee they went, the blind, the deaf, The palsied, and the lame, The leper with his tainted life, The sick with fevered frame. And lo, Thy touch brought life and health, Gave speech, and strength, and sight; And youth renewed and frenzy calmed Owned Thee, the Lord of light: And now, O Lord, be near to bless, Almighty as of yore, In crowded street, by restless couch, As by Gennesaret's shore. Though Love and Might no longer heal By touch, or word, or look; Though they who do Thy work must read Thy laws in nature's book; Yet come to heal the sick man's soul, Come, cleanse the leprous taint; Give joy and peace where all is strife, And strength where all is faint. Be Thou our great Deliverer still, Thou Lord of life and death; Restore and quicken, soothe and bless, With thine almighty breath. To hands that work and eyes that see, Give wisdom's heavenly lore, That whole and sick, and weak and strong, May praise Thee evermore.
Word & Song is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast for paid subscribers, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks. Paid subscribers also receive audio-enhanced posts and on-demand access to our full archive, and may add their comments to our posts and discussions.
Most of those in need whether blind, deaf, handicapped, or ill, came to Jesus first and asked Him directly or thorugh another to heal them. It was the petitioner tnen that took the first step which was one of belief. Today we too continue to take the first step as believers-- asking through prayer and petition for God's healing grace.
Don't you think "irascible" is too negative a word to use when describing Dante? "Passionate" would be a better choice.