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

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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 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.