E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.

Then in a nobler, sweeter song,

I'll sing Thy power to save

When this poor lisping, stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave.

Many there be, indeed, with whom this hymn is not a favorite. To them its imagery is unwelcome; nevertheless, it has been triumphantly sung by millions of God's saints. It was a great favorite with my honored friend, Governor Stevenson, of Kentucky. As sung at his funeral, it stirred my heart to rapid beating, and brought tears to my eyes. I could almost hear the shouts of his ransomed soul, declaring:

Then in a nobler, sweeter song,

I'll sing Thy power to save,

When this poor lisping, stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave.

II.

660 Oh, for a closer walk with God,
A calm and heavenly frame,

A light to shine upon the road
That leads me to the Lamb!

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.

III.

This was a great favorite with William E. Gladstone, and

by him translated into the Italian language:

599 Hark, my soul, it is the Lord;
'Tis thy Saviour, hear His word;
Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee,
Speaks to each one, "Lov'st thou Me?"

He delivered thee when bound,
And, when wounded, healed thy wound;
Sought thee wandering, set thee right,
Turned thy darkness into light.

Can a woman's tender care
Cease towards the child she bare?
Yes, she may forgetful be;
Yet will He remember thee.

His is an unchanging love,
Higher than the heights above,
Deeper than the depths beneath,
Free and faithful, strong as death.

We shall see His glory soon,
When the work of grace is done;
Partners of His throne shall be;

Hear Him asking, "Lov'st thou Me?"

Lord, it is my chief complaint

That my love is weak and faint;

Yet I love Thee and adore;

Oh, for grace to love Thee more!

IV.

Perhaps the most powerful of all Cowper's hymns is this. It is all the more interesting to read or sing it, because of his personal experiences of perplexities and sorrows:

Deep in unfathomable mines,
With never-failing skill,

He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.

In this connection, Mrs. Browning's touching lines upon "Cowper's Grave," may well be read:

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying;
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying:
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish:
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory,
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights

departed,

He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted.

He shall be strong to satisfy the poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken,

Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.

It makes the wounded spirit whole,

And calms the troubled breast:

'Tis manna to the hungry soul,

And to the weary rest.

Dear name, the rock on which I build,
My shield and hiding place,
My never-failing treasury, filled
With boundless stores of grace.

Jesus, my Shepherd, Guardian, Friend,
My Prophet, Priest and King,
My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End,
Accept the praise I bring.

Weak is the effort of my heart,

And cold my warmest thought;
But when I see Thee as Thou art,
I'll praise Thee as I ought.

Till then I would Thy love proclaim
With every fleeting breath;

And may the music of Thy name
Refresh my soul in death.

The other is on the Church of Christ. How jubilant its

notes!

490 Glorious things of thee are spoken,

Zion, city of our God;

He, whose word cannot be broken,
Formed thee for His own abode.
On the Rock of Ages founded,
Who can shake thy pure repose?
With salvation's walls surrounded,
Thou may'st smile at all thy foes.

See, the streams of living waters,
Springing from eternal love,
Well supply thy sons and daughters,
And all fear of want remove.

Who can faint, when such a river

Ever flows their thirst t' assuage?

Grace which, like the Lord, the giver,
Never fails from age to age.

Deep in unfathomable mines,
With never-failing skill,

He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His work in vain;

God is His own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.

In this connection, Mrs. Browning's touching lines upon "Cowper's Grave," may well be read:

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying;
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying:
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish:
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory,
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights

departed,

He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted.

He shall be strong to satisfy the poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration;

Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken,

Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.