If you go to the courtyard of the cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, in Sheffield, England, you will see a memorial sculpted and erected in honor of James Montgomery, the poet who wrote our Hymn of the Week. It is a worthy memorial to a man whom his dearest friend, writing after Montgomery passed away, compared to another favorite of ours at Word and Song, William Cowper. They shared, said he, “the same benevolence of heart, the same modesty of deportment, the same purity of life, the same attachment to literary pursuits, the same fondness for solitude and and retirement from the public haunts of men; and, to complete the picture, the same ardent feeling in the cause of religion, and the same disposition to gloom and melancholy.” We wouldn’t be surprised to find that such a man was a champion of the humble in the world, especially those whom the great and the powerful had ground into despair. Hence he was, like Cowper and his more energetic partner at the Olney Church, John Newton, a tireless preacher against the slave-trade, and though I’ll overlook his teenage enthusiasm for the French Revolution (which got him tossed in prison for a short stay), it’s a part of his feeling for the lowly, and coming from a Scotsman, for that’s what he was, it seems more understandable.
But back to that memorial. On one side, we’ve got four verses from a different hymn, “There is a Calm for Those who Weep,” and it’s the last stanza that strikes me most powerfully. It’s one thing to be an advocate for the poor. It’s yet another to see that we are all of us poor — who will dare lift up his chin to assert his rights in the presence of God? But it’s even more to see the greatness in every human person, conferred not by action in the world, but directly, by the gift of God. That’s what I find here:
The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor through the sky;
The soul, immortal as its Sire,
Shall never die!
A brilliant line, that one: “The sun is but a spark of fire.” That is true. What is the sun, compared with the breath of God in man?
James Montgomery wrote more than 400 hymns (including one of my favorites that we’ve featured here, Songs of Praise the Angels Sang) not to mention some pretty substantial works in other poetic modes, and he had a strong and deserved reputation in England. Lord Byron, of all people, stood up for him against some carping critics. I say, “of all people,” because Byron was, at least by public reputation, the last man alive to be found beside a writer of hymns. Yet the same Lord Byron, in Venice, attached himself to a monastery of Armenian Christians, under whom he learned the Armenian language and ended up translating parts of the Armenian Bible. Only God knows the secret corners of our hearts. We ourselves may be hardly aware of them.
But James Montgomery was almost the inverse of Byron in many ways. Byron, as a child, was precocious and spoiled, growing up in the midst of upper-class decadence. Montgomery was born to a family of modest means; his mother and father died as missionaries when he was a boy. Byron’s name blazed across Europe, as he intended that it should. Of his own poetry, Montgomery said that he would be remembered, if at all, for his hymns. Byron’s heroes are titanic, hurling defiance against God. Montgomery — and this is true of our hymn today — worshiped the God who came among us in the flesh, choosing a humble birth. Yet when Byron died in Greece, fighting for Greek independence from the Turk, I am sure that Montgomery mourned for him and approved the cause for which he died.
Humility is the secret of true greatness, and so secret it is, that the most brilliant of pagan philosophers seem hardly to have encountered it, though I think that if you consider it carefully, and if you include modesty and a penchant for holding your peace, you will find it in the Chinese sages and in the ironical Socrates and the mystic Plotinus. I’m not speaking sentimentally here. Humility opens up the soul. “Unless you become as little children,” says Jesus, “you shall not enter the kingdom of God.” You cannot become like God who condescended to create the world — even to create you and me.
Oh, and one last thing, if you’ll forgive a jest to conclude — guess what word in our hymn picks up yesterday’s discussion of H’s? Humble! For Montgomery wrote that Jesus chose “an humble” birth — and there we can hear all over again some fourteenth century cook serving up a numble pie — which became an humble pie — and then just humble pie.
We are offering an organ-only version of our hymn today, because the recordings we found using the tune, Kingsfold, were generally done to the hymn “I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say.”
When Jesus left His Father's throne, He chose an humble birth; Like us, unhonored and unknown, He came to dwell on earth. Like Him may we be found below, In wisdom's path of peace; Like Him in grace and knowledge grow, As years and strength increase. Sweet were His words and kind His look, When mothers round Him pressed; Their infants in His arms He took, And on His bosom blessed. Safe from the world's alluring harms, Beneath His watchful eye, Thus in the circle of His arms May we for ever lie. When Jesus into Sion rode, The children sang around; For joy they plucked the palms, and strowed Their garments on the ground. Hosanna our glad voices raise, Hosanna to our King! Should we forget our Savior's praise, The stones themselves would sing.
Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymn, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks. Please help us continue our mission to share good things every day by joining us as a free or paid subscriber.
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A lovely way to start the day, thank you!