Scripture Verse

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles…For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. 2 Corinthians 1:3,5

Introduction

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Charles Wesley (1707–1788)

Words: Charles Wes­ley, Hymns and Sac­red Po­ems 1740.

Music: Aberyst­wyth (Par­ry) Jo­seph Par­ry, 1876. First pub­lished in Ed­ward Ste­phens’ Ail Lyfr To­nau ac Emy­nau, 1879 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tunes:

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Joseph Parry (1841–1903)

Origin of the Hymn

Mrs. Mary Hoo­ver, of Belle­fonte, Penn­syl­vania, whose grand­mo­ther was the he­ro­ine of the sto­ry, has re­lat­ed to her pas­tor this fa­mi­ly tra­di­tion:

Charles Wes­ley was preach­ing in the fields of the par­ish of Kil­ly­leagh, Coun­ty Down, Ire­land, when he was at­tacked by men who did not ap­prove of his doc­trines.

He sought re­fuge in a house lo­cat­ed on what was known as the Is­land Barn Farm. The farm­er’s wife, Jane Low­rie Moore, told him to hide in the milk­house, down in the gar­den.

Soon the mob came and de­mand­ed the fu­gi­tive. She tried to qui­et them by of­fer­ing them re­fresh­ments.

Going down to the milk­house, she di­rect­ed Mr. Wes­ley to get through the rear win­dow and hide un­der the hedge, by which ran a lit­tle brook. In that hid­ing place, with the cries of his pur­su­ers all about him, he wrote this im­mor­tal hymn.

Descendants of Mrs. Moore still live in the house, which is much the same as it was in Wes­ley’s time.

Sankey, pp. 172–73


In the [Ame­ri­can] Ci­vil War of the (eight­een) six­ties ma­ny drum­mer boys had left school to join the ar­my. One of them, named Tom, was called the young dea­con, as he was a great fa­vo­rite and was re­spect­ed by the sol­diers for his re­li­gious life. Both his wi­dowed mo­ther and his sis­ter were dead, so he had gone to war.

One day he told the chap­lain he had had a dream the night be­fore. In his sleep he was greet­ed home again by his mo­ther and lit­tle sis­ter. How glad they were! he said. My mo­ther pressed me to her heart. I didn’t seem to re­mem­ber they were dead. O, sir, it was just as real as you are real now!

Thank God, Tom, re­plied the chap­lain, that you have such a mo­ther, not real­ly dead but in hea­ven, and that you are hop­ing through Christ to meet her again.

The fol­low­ing day in fright­ful bat­tle both ar­mies swept ov­er the same ground four times, and at night be­tween the two ar­mies lay ma­ny dead and wound­ed that nei­ther dared ap­proach.

Tom was miss­ing; but when the bat­tle roar was ov­er they re­cog­nized his voice sing­ing, soft­ly and beau­ti­ful­ly, Je­sus, Lov­er of my soul. When he had sung, Leave, ah! leave me not alone, still sup­port and com­fort me, the voice stopped and there was si­lence.

In the morn­ing the sol­diers found Tom sit­ting on the ground and lean­ing against a stump—dead. But they knew that his help­less soul had found re­fuge with Je­sus, the Lov­er of the soul.

Price, p. 21

Some have called this the fin­est hymn in the Eng­lish lang­uage.

Lyrics

Jesus, lov­er of my soul,
Let me to Thy bo­som fly,
While the near­er wa­ters roll,
While the tem­pest still is high.
Hide me, O my Sav­ior, hide,
Till the storm of life is past;
Safe in­to the hav­en guide;
O re­ceive my soul at last.

Other re­fuge have I none,
Hangs my help­less soul on Thee;
Leave, ah! leave me not alone,
Still supp­ort and com­fort me.
All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my de­fense­less head
With the sha­dow of Thy wing.

Wilt Thou not re­gard my call?
Wilt Thou not ac­cept my pray­er?
Lo! I sink, I faint, I fall—
Lo! on Thee I cast my care;
Reach me out Thy gra­cious hand!
While I of Thy strength re­ceive,
Hoping against hope I stand,
Dying, and be­hold, I live.

Thou, O Christ, art all I want,
More than all in Thee I find;
Raise the fall­en, cheer the faint,
Heal the sick, and lead the blind.
Just and ho­ly is Thy name,
I am all un­right­eous­ness;
False and full of sin I am;
Thou art full of truth and grace.

Plenteous grace with Thee is found,
Grace to co­ver all my sin;
Let the heal­ing streams abound;
Make and keep me pure with­in.
Thou of life the foun­tain art,
Freely let me take of Thee;
Spring Thou up with­in my heart;
Rise to all eter­ni­ty.