God is able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham.@Luke 3:8
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Robert A. Schumann
(1810–1856)

Charles Wes­ley, Hymns and Sac­red Po­ems 1740.

Can­on­bu­ry adapt­ed from Nacht­stück, Op­us 23, No. 4, by Ro­bert A. Schu­mann, 1839 (🔊 pdf nwc).

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Charles Wesley
(1707–1788)

On Au­gust 31, 1739, [Wes­ley’s] Jour­nal says, ‘I spoke to the poor col­li­ers on The blind re­ceive their sight, the lame walk, &c.’ On Tues­day, Sep­tem­ber 4, he ‘preached ov­er against the school in Kings­wood, to some thou­sands (col­liers chief­ly [see the last two vers­es, writt­en with this au­di­ence in mind]), and held out the prom­is­es, from Isa. xxxv.: The wil­der­ness and the sol­i­ta­ry place shall be glad for them; and the de­sert shall re­joice, and blos­som as the rose.

I tri­umphed in God’s me­rcy to these poor out­casts (for He hath called them a peo­ple who were not a peo­ple), and in the ac­comp­lish­ment of that scrip­ture, Then the eyes of the blind shall be op­ened, &c. Oh, how glad­ly do the poor re­ceive the gos­pel! We hard­ly knew how to part.’

When White­field told his friends in Bris­tol that he was go­ing to Am­er­i­ca to preach to sav­ag­es, they re­plied, ‘What need of go­ing abroad for this? Have we not In­di­ans enough at home? If you want to con­vert Indians, there are coll­iers enough at Kings­wood.’

Telford, p. 237

Glory to God, whose sovereign grace
Hath animated senseless stones;
Called us to stand before His face,
And raised us into Abraham’s sons!

The people that in darkness lay,
In sin and error’s deadly shade,
Have seen a glorious gospel day,
In Jesus’ lovely face displayed.

Thou only, Lord, the work hast done,
And bared Thine arm in all our sight;
Hast made the reprobates Thine own,
And claimed the outcasts as Thy right.

Thy single arm, almighty Lord,
To us the great salvation brought,
Thy Word, Thy all-creating Word,
That spake at first the world from naught.

For this the saints lift up their voice,
And ceaseless praise to Thee is giv’n;
For this the hosts above rejoice,
We raise the happiness of Heav’n.

For this, no longer sons of night,
To Thee our thankful hearts we give;
To Thee, who called us into light,
To Thee we die, to Thee we live.

Suffice that for the season past
Hell’s horrid language filled our tongues,
We all Thy words behind us cast,
And lewdly sang the drunkard’s songs.

But, O the power of grace divine!
In hymns we now our voices raise,
Loudly in strange hosannas join,
And blasphemies are turned to praise!