Sunday, July 19, 2009

It is well.

I have been reading quite a bit lately. Part of it is because I have the privilege of reviewing books for Thomas Nelson Publishing and partly because we got rid of our Dish. Let's face it, when you go from over 100 channels to choose from, down to two, you tend to find other things to fill your time.

So, I have been reading quite a bit. I borrowed a book from a cousin and dear friend this week, entitled "Symphony in the Dark" by Barbara Rainey and Rebecca Rainey Mutz. Short version is that this grandmother and mother, wrote about the loss and grief the family endured when Rebecca's daughter died 7 days after birth.

Yes, I cried.

Here is the amazing thing, I read the words of a song, that I have probably sung more time than I can count. Ralph, actually quoted from it at our own son's funeral. I remember vividly singing it at Steve's (Ralph's dad) funeral. There really is no way to describe this song, as it is sung by hundreds of people without any instrumental accompaniment.

It is a heart cry in a time of grief.

As I read this book, and read a snippet of the first stanza of this song that was included, I was hit. I was hit with the this line, "Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, It is well, with my soul."

Thou hast taught me to say - it is well.

I've heard that a hundred times, but reading it - He has taught me to say, it is well.

It Is Well With My Soul

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But Lord, 'tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

Horatio Spafford

Father, may I always be teachable, in every circumstance.

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