On June 6, 1882 George Matheson penned the hauntingly beautiful words to the hymn O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go. Heres how he describes it: My hymn was composed in the manse of Innelan [Argyleshire, Scotland] on the evening of the 6th of June, 1882, when I was 40 years of age. I was alone in the manse at that time. It was the night of my sister’s marriage, and the rest of the family were staying overnight in Glasgow. Something happened to me, which was known only to myself, and which caused me the most severe mental suffering. The hymn was the fruit of that suffering. It was the quickest bit of work I ever did in my life. I had the impression of having it dictated to me by some inward voice rather than of working it out myself. I am quite sure that the whole work was completed in five minutes, and equally sure that it never received at my hands any retouching or correction. I have no natural gift of rhythm. All the other verses I have ever written are manufactured articles; this came like a dayspring from on high. When he was about 20, George went totally blind and his fiancée broke off their engagement because, she told him, she didnt want to go through life with a blind man. So, twenty years later, he writes these words on the occasion of his sisters wedding. His sister had cared for him for many years and, no doubt, he was sad and anxious about the loss of her help and company. Who knows what all the mental suffering he is referring to is (no doubt, he thought about the wedding/marriage he never had and wondered about what life would be like in the future without his sisters aid and companionship), but these circumstances are suggestive. O Love that wilt not let me go, I rest my weary soul in thee; I give thee back the life I owe, That in thine ocean depths its flow May richer, fuller be. O light that followest all my way, I yield my flickering torch to thee; My heart restores its borrowed ray, That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day May brighter, fairer be. O Joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain, And feel the promise is not vain, That morn shall tearless be. O Cross that liftest up my head, I dare not ask to fly from thee; I lay in dust life’s glory dead, And from the ground there blossoms red Life that shall endless be.
Posted on: Fri, 06 Jun 2014 12:45:06 +0000
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