Scripture Verse

A glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle…holy and without blemish. Ephesians 5:27


John H. Yates (1837–1900)

Words: John H. Yates, in Song Ser­mons for Ge­ne­ral Use and Spe­cial Ser­vic­es, ed­it­ed by Phi­lip Phil­lips (New York: In­ter­na­tion­al Mu­sic and Pub­lish­ing Agen­cy, 1877).

Music: Ar­ranged by Ira D. San­key (🔊 pdf nwc).

Ira D. Sankey (1840–1908)

A poor lit­tle girl, liv­ing in an al­ley of the slum dist­rict of Chi­ca­go, was used in a re­mark­able way for the con­ver­sion of a com­mer­cial trav­el­er. He had re­ceived in­struct­ions, his trunks filled with sam­ples had been sent to the de­pot, and hur­ried good­byes had been said. With grip­sack in hand, he took a short-cut to the sta­tion through one of the fil­thy al­leys of the ci­ty. He saw a great num­ber of half clad child­ren, whose on­ly home was a wretch­ed base­ment or illy ven­ti­lat­ed te­ne­ment. As he passed, one li­ttle waif was sing­ing at the top of her voice:

There’ll be no sor­row there.

Where? said the thought­less sales­man.

In hea­ven above, where all is love, there’ll be no sor­row there,

Sang the lit­tle girl.

The ans­wer, the sing­er, the far away hea­ven with no sor­row, lodged in his heart. The fast fly­ing train soon left be­hind the hur­ry and the bus­tle of ci­ty life, but the an­swer of the lit­tle sing­ing waif was ta­ken up and re­peat­ed by the ra­pid re­vo­lu­tion of the car wheels. He could not for­get the sing­er and the song, nor could he rest un­til he cried for mer­cy at the Cross. It was one of the ma­ny ful­fill­ments of the prom­ise, A li­ttle child shall lead them.

Sankey, pp. 268–69


Well, wife, I’ve found the mo­del church,
And wor­shiped there to­day;
It made me think of good old times,
Before my hair was gray;
The meet­ing house was fin­er built
Than they were years ago,
But then I found when I went in,
It was not built for show.

The sex­ton did not set me down
Away back by the door;
He knew that I was old and deaf,
And saw that I was poor;
He must have been a Chris­tian man,
He led me bold­ly through
The crowd­ed aisle of that grand church,
To find a plea­sant pew.

I wish you’d heard the sing­ing, wife,
It had the old-time ring;
The preach­er said with trum­pet voice,
Let all the people sing:
Old Co­ro­na­tion was the tune;
The music up­ward rolled
Until I thought the an­gel choir
Struck all their harps of gold.

My deaf­ness seemed to melt away,
My spir­it caught the fire;
I joined my fee­ble, trem­bling voice
With that me­lo­di­ous choir;
And sang as in my youth­ful days,
Let angels pros­trate fall.
Bring forth the roy­al di­adem
And crown Him Lord of all.

I tell you, wife, it did me good
To sing that hymn once more;
I felt like some wrecked ma­rin­er
Who gets a glimpse of shore;
I al­most want to lay aside
This wea­ther beat­en form,
And an­chor in the bless­èd port,
Forever from the storm.

’Twas not a flo­we­ry ser­mon, wife,
But sim­ple gos­pel truth;
It fit­ted hum­ble men like me;
It suit­ed hope­ful youth;
To win im­mor­tal souls to Christ,
The ear­nest preach­er tried;
He talked not of himself, or creed,
But Je­sus cru­ci­fied.

Dear wife, the toil will soon be o’er,
The vict’ry soon be won;
The shin­ing land is just ahead,
Our race is near­ly run;
We’re near­ing Ca­naan’s hap­py shore,
Our home so bright and fair;
Thank God, we’ll ne­ver sin again,
There’ll be no sor­row there.