A glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle…holy and without blemish.@Ephesians 5:27
John H. Yates (1837–1900)

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

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

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

Ira D. Sankey (1840–1908)

Well, wife, I’ve found the model church,
And worshipped 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 tho’t 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.