Lent, Day 12: It Is Well With My Soul

This is an appropriate follow-up to yesterday's post, actually.  If you don't know the story behind this beautiful hymn, grab a tissue and read about it. I'm totally serious about grabbing a tissue. Don't say I didn't warn you.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well with my soul,
It is well with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control:
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul!

Horatio Spafford

Sunday Songs

O Sacred Head, Now Wounded

O sacred head, now wounded,
With grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded
With thorns Thine only crown:
O sacred head: what glory,
What bliss till now was thine!
Yet though despised and gory,
I joy to call thee mine.

What thou, my Lord, hast suffered
Was all for sinners' gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression,
But thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Savior! 
Tis I deserve thy place;
Look on me with thy favor,
Vouchsafe me to thy grace.

What language shall I borrow
To thank thee, dearest friend,
For this thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
O make me thine forever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to thee.

Sunday Songs

Hark!  The Sound of Holy Voices
Christopher Wordsworth, 1862

Hark! the sound of holy voices, chanting at the crystal sea,
Alleluia!  Alleluia!  Alleluia!  Lord, to thee:
Multitude, which none can number, like the stars in glory stan
Clothed in white apparel, holding palms of victory in their hand.

They have come from tribulation, and have washed their robes in blood,
Washed them in the blood of Jesus; tried they were and firm they stood,
Mocked, imprisoned, stoned, tormented, sawn asunder, slain with sword,
They have conquered death and Satan by the might of Christ the Lord.

Marching with the cross their banner, they have triumphed, following
Thee, the Captain of salvation, thee their Saviour and their King;
Gladly, Lord, with thee they suffered; gladly, Lord, with thee they died;
And by death to life immortal they were born and glorified.

God of God, the One-begotten, Light of light, Emmanuel,
In whose body joined together all the saints forever dwell;
Pour upon us of thy fullness that we may forevermore
God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost adore.

Sunday Songs

How Sweet And Awful Is the Place
Isaac Watts, 1707

How sweet and awful is the place
With Christ within the doors,
While everlasting love displays
The choicest of her stores.

While all our hearts and all our songs
Join to admire the feast,
Each of us cry, with thankful tongues,
"Lord, why was I a guest?

"Why was I made to hear thy voice,
And enter while there's room,
When thousands make a wretched choice,
And rather starve than come?"

'Twas the same love that spread the feast
That sweetly drew us in;
Else we had still refused to come
And perished in our sin.

Pity the nations, O our God,
Constrain the Earth to come!
Send thy victorious word abroad,
And bring the strangers home!

We long to see thy churches full
That all the chosen race
May,with one voice and heart and soul,
Sing thy redeeming grace.

Sunday Songs

My Soul, Now Bless Thy Maker
Johann Graumann, tr. by Catherine Winkworth
From the Lutheran Hymnal 1540, based on Psalm 103

My soul, now bless thy Maker!
Let all within me bless His name,
Who maketh thee partaker
Of mercies more than thou darest claim!
Forget Him not whose meekness
Still bears with all thy sin,
Who healeth all thy weakness,
Renews thy life within.
Whose grace and care are endless,
Who saved thee through the past;
Who leaves no sufferer friendless,
But rights the wronged at last.

He shows to man His treasure
Of judgment, truth, and righteousness,
His love beyond all measure,
His yearning pity o’er distress;
Nor treats us as we merit,
But lays His anger by.
The humble, contrite spirit
Finds His compassion nigh;
And high as Heav’n above us,
As break from close of day,
So far, since He doth love us,
He puts our sins away.

For as a tender father
Hath pity on his children here,
He in His arms will gather
All who are His in childlike fear.
He knows how frail our powers
Who but from dust are made;
We flourish like the flowers,
And even so we fade;
The wind but o’er them passes,
And all their bloom is o’er—
We wither like the grasses,
Our place knows us no more.

God’s grace alone endureth,
And children’s children yet shall prove
How He with strength assureth
The hearts of all that seek His love.
In Heaven is fixed His dwelling,
His rule is over all;
Angels, in might excelling,
Bright hosts before Him fall.
Praise Him who ever reigneth,
All ye who hear His Word!
Nor our poor hymns disdaineth—
My soul, O bless the Lord!

Sunday Songs: The Church

I hate those cheese-ball alliterative day-of-the-week titles people use on their blogs (Friday Funnies, Mixology Monday, Thursday is for Thrombosis, or whatever), but I thought it would be fun to post the lyrics to some of my favorite hymns and songs on Sundays.  So here goes.  Note that songs about God's people pretty much invariably make me cry (see: The Church's One Foundation, especially verse two about the "elect from every nation"... definitely getting choked up just typing those words).

I Love Thy Kingdom, Lord

I Love thy kingdom, Lord, the house of thine abode,
The church our blest Redeemer saved with His own precious blood.

I love thy church, O God: her walls before thee stand,
Dear as the apple of thine eye, and graven on thy hand.

For her my tears shall fall, for her my prayers ascend;
To her my cares and toils be giv'n, till toils and cares shall end.

Beyond my highest joy I prize her heav'nly ways,
Her sweet communion, solemn vows, her hymns of love and praise.

Jesus, thou friend divine, our Savior and our King,
Thy hand from every snare and foe shall great deliv'rance bring.

Sure as Thy truth shall last, to Zion shall be giv'n
The brightest glories earth can yield and brighter bliss of heav'n.

-- Timothy Dwight, 1800