At some time or other the Lord will provide: We'll join in the chorus, "The Lord will provide." TUNE FROM "SONGS AND SOLOS." 48-BEGONE, UNBELIEF. THIS hymn, by John Newton, has been a wonderful stand-by to multitudes. Newton, before he became a hymn-writer, had gone the pace indeed in his youth, but had experienced one of those marvellous conversions which are the moral miracles of life. He came through much tribulation into a state in which he could write: "I commit my soul to my gracious_God and Saviour, who mercifully spared me when I was an apostate, a blasphemer, and an infidel, and delivered me from that state of misery on the coast of Africa into which my obstinate wickedness had plunged me, and who has pleased to admit me (though most unworthy) to preach His glorious gospel." Though dark be my way, 'Tis His to provide: His love, in time past, Forbids me to think Determined to save, He watched o'er my path, Why should I complain No heart can conceive, Which He drank quite up, Since all that I meet The medicine, food; TUNE-"HANOVER." Among the multitudinous testimonies which poured in upon me from those who had been helped by hymns, none touched me more than the story told by a poor Lancashire lass who, under the stress of passionate temptation, had forgotten the responsibilities of her position as Sunday-school teacher and the obligations of her maidenhood. She married her lover before her child was born, but the sense of her sin burnt like vitriol into her life. She wrote: "It seemed to me no soul in hell could be blacker than mine. To feel that I had disgraced the Master's service and dishonoured His Holy Name, was the bitterest drop in my cup. Never shall I forget those awful months, nay, years of torture. If any soul doubts the reality of a hell, let him live through what I lived then. I have been there, and know it exists. My girls brought me out and begged me to go back to teach. Good God! a thing like me to go back to teach these poor innocent creatures! I shrunk away, feeling I could never desecrate the threshold of God's house by my presence. They came again; it was Christmas Eve. They sang the carols at our door, and then came in, kissing and making much of me. Presently my husband began to play on the piano the dear old hymn, 'Begone, unbelief,' the girls all joining in with lips untouched by care. I had to leave the room. All the pent-up agony of months were in the strain since I was not even fit to sing it, and then kneeling at my bedside in the darkness, there came to me two lines of the hymn they had been singing: How bitter that cup no heart can conceive Which He drank quite up that SINNERS might live. Bitterer than even mine, I thought, and He drank it for me. That was the miracle for me, and I knew myself forgiven, knew that the Christ was looking at me, not with angry, but with pitying eyes. Ah, the blessedness of it! But do you suppose I could ever forgive myself more than ever I blamed and hated myself? And now there came to me a messenger direct from God. One of the friends who visited the place quarterly called to see me; when he rose to go he laid his hand on my shoulder, and, looking me straight in the face, said: 'My child, when are you going back to your work? They need you there, your class needs you, the whole school needs you, and God wants you. If you have done wrong, go and atone for it.' He left me, but his words were alive atone for it: could I? Was that the way the Master would have me take, show Him how real my sorrow was by trying to save others from the pit into which I had fallen? If that were so, then I could brave sneers and ridicule, stand to be despised and looked down upon, if only I might in some degree atone, and show forth my loyalty and love for Him, I would do or bear whatsoever He chose, and so I went back to service to bear and endure, and be tested, and I carried with me into the fight the last verse of my hymn. Since all that I meet doth work for my good, The bitter is sweet, the medicine food. Though painful at present, 't will cease before long, "That verse was my help and stay through all the long, weary years when I slowly climbed my way back to peace and happiness, and the esteem of those whom I respected and desired should respect me. Can you wonder that this hymn is precious to me, that I hold it dearer than all others, and I think until I stand in His presence it will be one of the most hallowed and sacred of my possessions. My story is done; it is not the story of saint or martyr, but of a girl's sorrow and sin, of a woman's struggle and victory through Christ Jesus. It has not been an easy task to write it; one does n't as a rule 'volunteer heart history to a crowd,' but there are other girls in the world passing through the self-same trials, and if my life-story can help them I have no right to hold it back." A lady writing from the Citadel of Cairo, says of this hymn: "I am surprised and disappointed to find that it is not in the Sunday at Home list. It is the hymn that I love best of the hundreds that I know; it has helped me scores of times in the dark days of my life, and has never failed to inspire me with fresh hope and confidence when life looked dark and dreary;' and it is dear to me from associations with the memory of the best of fathers. To him, in his many and sore troubles, it was a source of comfort and help, and, I believe, was to him a sort of link by which he held on to God. To me the words are not doggerel at all, they are just lovely. I often go about singing them when alone, to help me on in the way.” 49-GIVE TO THE WINDS THY FEARS. MR. STEVENSON, in his notes on the Methodist HymnBook, says: "There is not a hymn in the book which has afforded more comfort and encouragement than this to the Lord's tried people." The legend connected with this hymn recalls the delightful tales in the lives of the Saints. The origin of the hymn itself is not unworthy the record of its subsequent exploits. Gerhardt was |