The western sentinel. [volume] (Winston-Salem, N.C.) 1887-1926, 1888-03-08

Hymn" Fifty years of trouble have
tanned the spirit, and the keys of
the music board must have solemn
tread. Though the voice may be tremu-
lous, SO that grandfather will not trust it
in church, still he has the Psalm book
open before him and he sings with his
soul. He huns his grandchild asleep
with the same tune he sang forty years
ago in the old country meeting house.
Some day the choir sings a tune so old
that the young people do not know it;
but it starts the tears down the cheek of
the aged man, for it reminds him of the
revival scene in which he participated,
and of the radiant faces that long since
went to dust, and of the gray haired
minister leaning over the pulpit and
sounding the good tidfngs of great joy.
was one Thanksgiving day in my
pulpit in Syracuse, n. Y, and Rev. Dan
iel Waldo, at 90 years of age, stood be-
side me. The choir sang tune. said:
81 am sorry they sang that new tune;
nobody seems to know it. :" ''Bless you,
my son. said the old man, Il heard
that seventy years ago!'
There was a song today that touched
the life of the aged with holy fire, and
kindled glory on their vision that our
younger eyesight cannot see. 1t was the
all their lives long; Jesus, who wiped
away their tears; Jesus, who stood by
them when all else failed; Jesus, in
whose name their marriage was conse-
Grated, and whose resurrection has poured
light upon the graves of their departed.
Blessed the Bible in which specialized old
age reads the promise, 81 will never
leave you, never forsake you'll" Blessed
the staff on which the worn out pilgrim
totters on toward the welcome of his re-
deemer! Blessed the hymn book in
which the faltering tongue and the fail
ing eyes find Jesus, the old mans song.
I speak to you again of Jesus as the
night song. Job speaks of him who Civ
eth songs in the night. John WEIGH, the
old Scotch minister, used to put plaid
across his bed on cold nights, and some
one asked him why he put that there.
He said: "Oh, sometimes in the night I
want to sing the praise of Jesus, and to
get down and pray; then I just take that
plaid and wrap it around me, to keep
myself from the cold.i Songs in the
night Night of trouble has come down
upon many of you. Commercial losses
put out one star, slanderous abuse put
out another star, domestic bereavement
has put out a thousand lights, and gloom
has been added % gloom, and chill to
chill, and sting 20 sting, and one mid
night has seemed to borrow the fold
from another midnight to wrap itself III
more unbearable darkness; but Christ
has spoken peace to your heart, and you
can sing:
Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the pillows me roll,
While the tempest still is high.
Hide me- oh, my Saviour hide
Till the storm of life is past,
Safe into the haven guide;
oh, receive my soul at last
Songs in the night! Songs in the
night For the sick, who have no one
to turn the hot pillow, no one to put the
taper on the stand, no one to put ice on
the temple, or pour out the soothing ano-
dyne, or utter one cheerful word-yet
songs in the night For the poor, who
freeze in the winters cold, and swelter
in the summers heat, and MUNICH the
hard crusts that bleed the sore gums, and
SILVER under blankets that cannot any
longer be patched, and trenlble because
rent day is come and they may be set
out on the sidewalk, and looking into the
starved face of the child and seeing
famine there and death there, coming
home from the bakery, and saying, in the
presence of the little famished ones, ''Oh,
my God, flour has gone up!" Yet songs in
the night! Songs in the night! For the
widow who goes to get the back pay of
her husband, slain by the 'ssharp shoot
ers, y and knows it is the last help she
will have, moving out of a comfortable
home in desolation, death turning back
from the exhausting cough and the pale
cheek and the lusterless eye, and refusing
all relief. Yet songs in the night Songs
i,, no tir Gol1
hospital, no surgeon to bind up the gun
shot fracture, no water for the hot lips,
no kind hand to brush away the flies
from the fresh wound, no one to take the
loving farewell, the grooming of others
poured into his own groan, the blasphemy
of others blowing up his own spirit, the
condensed bitterness of dying away from
home among strangers. Yet songs in
the night! Songs in the night! "Ah!''
said one dying soldier, ''tell my mother
that last night there was not one cloud
between my soul and Jesus" Songs in
the night! Songs in the night!
The Sabbath day has come. From the
affairs of ten thousand churches has
smoked up the SAVIOR of sacrifice. Min
listers of the Gospel are now preaching in
plain English, in broad Scotch, in flowing
Italian, in harsh Choctaw. Gods peo-
pie have assembled in Hindoo temple,
and Moravian church, and Quaker meet
ing house, and sailors bethel, and kings
chapel, and high lowered cathedral.
They sang, and the song floated off
amidst the spice groves, or struck the
icebergs, or floated off into the western
pines, or was drowned in the clamor of
the great cities Lumbermen sang it,
and the factory girls, and the children in
no oh hot, ola hn trnir nH
choirs in great assemblages. Trap
pers, with the same voices with
which they shouted yesterday in
the stag hunt, and mariners with Threats
that only few days ago sounded in the
hoarse blast of the sea hurricane, they
sang it. One theme for the sermons.
One burden for the song. Jesus for the
invocation. Jesus for the Scripture les
son. Jesus for the baptisnlal font. Jesus
for the sacramento cup. Jesus for the
benediction. But the day will go by. It
will roll away on swift wheels of light
and love. Again the churches will be
lighted. Tides of people again setting
down the streets. Whole families COM
ing up the church, aisle. We must have
one more sermon, two prayers, three
songs, and one benediction. What shall
we preach tonight? What shall we
redu! WHAT Shall IL DE, cnliuren! AGED
men and women, what shall it be? Young
men and maidens, what shall it be? If
you dared to break tho silence of this
auditory, there would G. ne up thousands
of quick and jubilant oices crying out:
'Let it be Jesus! Jesus!''
We sing his birth-the barn that
sheltered him, the mother that nursed
him, the cattle that fed beside him, the
angels that woke up the shepherds, shak-
ing light over the midnight hills. We