Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.
I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, Thou hast done;
I fear no more.
‘I have the rather mentioned this hymn,’ says Izaak Walton, ‘for
that he caused it to be set to a most grave and solemn tune, and to
be often sung to the organ by the choristers of St. Paul’s Church in
his own hearing; especially at the evening service, and at his
return from his customary devotions in that place, did occasionally
say to a friend: “The words of this hymn have restored to me the
same thoughts of joy that possessed my soul in my sickness when I
composed it. And, O, the power of Church music! that harmony added
to this hymn has raised the affections of my heart and quickened my
graces of zeal and gratitude; and I observe that I always return
from paying this public duty of prayer and praise to God, with an
unexpressible tranquillity of mind, and a willingness to leave the
world.”’
Ben Jonson’s lovely Christmas hymn is to be found in a few hymn-books
to-day. Is it too much to hope that it may yet become a familiar carol
of the Nativity?
I sing the Birth was born to-night,
The Author both of life and light;
The angels so did sound it:—
And like the ravished shepherds said,
Who saw the light, and were afraid,
Yet searched, and true they found it.
The Son of God, the eternal King,
That did us all salvation bring,
And freed the soul from danger;
He whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which heaven and earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.
What comfort by Him do we win,
Who made Himself the price of sin,
To make us heirs of glory!
To see this Babe, all innocence,
A martyr born in our defence!—
Can man forget this story?
Robert Herrick’s (1591-1674) quaint ‘Litany to the Holy Spirit’ yields
a few verses to some of our best modern collections, but his
irrepressible humour makes several verses impossible, and his
references to ‘furies in a shole,’ to ‘flames and hellish cares,’ shut
out others. In his _Noble Numbers_ are many fine verses and epigrams,
but he is not a hymn-writer.
George Herbert (1593-1632) did not write hymns to be sung in church,
though his ‘Antiphon’ and ‘The Elixir’ are, for love of their author,
found in many modern hymn-books, and ‘Praise’ is also beautifully
possible as a hymn. Yet his loveliest poems cannot be adapted to
congregational use. He is the greatest of the poets of the sanctuary,
but he is not a chorister. John Wesley and George Rawson tried to make
Herbert’s poems into hymns, but with no great success—though in one or
two instances Wesley came near it.[88] In any collection of religious
poetry for use in the hour of private devotion, Herbert would rank
among the chief contributors, and it is well that he should be
represented in our hymn-books, if only that he may be remembered and
honoured by our children.[89] He is the chief singer of a school of
poets in which Henry Vaughan and Christina Rossetti are distinguished
and worthy disciples.
I give three of Herbert’s poems. The first because it is an ideal
example of his quaint but exquisite pathos, and of his gracious,
humble, affectionate devotion to his Lord; the others because they are
the most hymn-like of his poems.