1843-1845

   Up to the time that I was six years old I have no remembrance of any religious ideas whatever.  Even, when taken once to see the corpse of a little boy of my own age (four years), lying in a coffin strewn with flowers, in dear papa’s parish of Astley, I did not think about it as otherwise than a very sad and very curious thing that that little child should lie so still and cold.  I do not think I could ever have said any of those “pretty things,” that little children often do, though there were sweet and beloved and holy ones round me who must have often tried to put good thoughts into my little mind.  The beginning of it was a sermon preached one Sunday morning, at Hallow Church by Mr. Phillpotts.  Of this I even now retain a distinct impression.  It was to me a very terrible one, dwelling much on hell and judgment, and what a fearful thing it is to fall into the hands of the living God.  No one ever knew it, but this sermon haunted me, and day and night it crossed me.  I began to pray a good deal, though only night and morning, and a sort of fidget and impatience, almost angry at feeling so unhappy, and wanting and expecting a new heart, and have everything put straight and be made happy, all at once. . .
   I think I had a far more vivid sense of the beauty of nature as a little child than I have even now; and its power over me was greater than any one would imagine. . .the golden quiet of a bright summer’s day used to enter into me and do me good.  What only some great and rare musical enjoyment is to me now, the shade of a tree under a clear blue sky, with a sunbeam glancing through the boughs was to me then.  But I did not feel happy in my very enjoyment; I wanted more.  I do not think I was eight when I hit upon Cowper’s lines, ending

                                             ”My Father made them all!”

That was what I wanted to be able to say; and, after once seeing the words, I never saw a lovely scene again without being teased  by them.  One spring (I think 1845) I kept thinking of them, and a dozen times a day said to myself “Oh, if God would but make me a Christian before the summer comes!” because I longed so to enjoy His works as I felt they could be enjoyed.  And I could not bear to think of another summer coming and going, and finding and leaving me still “not a Christian.” 

                                                  July 1845-Spring 1850 

  We went to St. Nicholas’ Rectory in 1845, and it was in very great bitterness that I bade adieu to my pleasant country life, and became, as I remember dear papa calling me, “a caged lark.”  This made a great difference to me, for I do think that the quiet everyday beauty of trees and sunshine was the chief external influence upon my early childhood.  Waving boughs and golden light always touched and quieted me, and spoke to me, and told me about God.  Being a “youngest” by so many years, and not knowing many children, I very rarely had a companion except my little Flora, [her pet dog] in that large Henwick garden, where I first learned to think; and that may have been the reason why trees and grass were so much to  me.  They were the first pleasant leaf in God’s great lesson book with me. . .
   Soon after coming, a sermon by the curate on “Fear not, little flock,” etc., struck me very much and woke me up again from a longer than usual slumber to a more restless unhappiness than usual.  I did so want to be happy and be “a Christian,” which term embraced everything I could possibly think of in the way of happiness. . .To come back to the sermon.  I had never yet spoken a word to any mortal about religion; but now I was so uneasy that, after nearly a fortnight’s hesitation, taking the emboldening opportunity of being alone with the curate one evening when almost dark, I told him my trouble; saying especially that I thought I was getting worse, because since I had come to St. Nicholas, I had not cared at all for Sunday afternoon reading and prayer.  His advice did not satisfy me.  He said the excitement of moving and coming into new scenes was the cause most likely of my feeling worse and that would soon go off; then I was to try and be a good child, and pray, etc., etc.  So, after that, my lips were utterly sealed to all but God for another five years or rather more.

Excerpts from MEMORIALS OF FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL                                

   Her sister Miriam continues:

   ”At four years old, Frances could read the Bible and any ordinary book correctly, and had learned to write in round hand.  French and music were gradually added; but great care was always taken not to tire her or excite the precocity of her mind, and she never had a regular governess. 
   “Mr. Jeffery has referred to her wreath of bay on her fourth birthday, and I remember making a wreath of the pink china roses which grew among the ivy on the rectory on her third birthday.  Alas!  the rose and the prophetic bay reappeared among her funeral wreaths.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

    
     ASTLEY CHURCH AND RECTORY IN 1839
             (From a sketch by Mrs. Crane)

   The surroundings of dear Frances’ early days in our Astley home may as well be given in the descriptive lines of my sister Miriam, written in 1863, acompanying her sketch of the church and rectory. 

   “Behold thy birthplace, Frances!  The old house
   entwined with ivy, roses, and the vine;
   Beneath the shadow of the ancient shrine
   Where ministered our father twenty years.
   He built the northern aisle, and gave the clock,
   A musical memento of his love
   For time and tune and punctuality!
   Fair is the garden ground, and there the flowers
   Were trained with care and skill by one who now
   Rests from her labours in the heavenly land.
   Here life and death together meet; the tombs
   Stand close beside the mossy bank, where once
   Sisters and brothers met in frolic play.
   Around, the wooded hills in beauty rise!
   Earth has not many scenes more fair than this,
   And none more dear to those who called it Home!”

–from MEMORIALS OF FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL by M.V.G.H.
    

   FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL was born on the 14th of December 1836, and was the youngest child of William Henry Havergal and Jane his wife.  Her father was then Rector of Astley, Worcestershire.  The names of her bothers and sisters, in the order of their birth, were:–
   l.   Jane Miriam, who married Henry Crane, Esq., of Oakhampton, near Stourport.
   2.  Henry East, vicor of Cople, Bedfordshire, who died 1875.  Married Frances Mary, daughter of George J. A. Walker, Esq., Norton, near Worcester.
   3.  Maria Vernon Graham.
   4.  Ellen Prestage, who maried Giles Shaw, Esq., of Celbridge Lodge, county Kildare, now of Winterdyne, Bewdley.
   5.  Frances Tebbs, vicar of Upton Bishop, near Ross.  Married Isabel Susan, daughter of Colonel W. Martin.
   On the 25th of January 1837, Frances was baptized in Astley Church by the Rev. John Cawood, incumbent of St. Ann’s, Bewdley.  Her godmothers were Miss Lucy Emra, of St. George’s Vicarage, near Bristol, authoress of “Lawrence the Martyr,” “Heavenly Themes,” and other poems; and Miss Elizabeth Cawood, whose clever and attractive brightness had ever great influence over her little goddaughter.  Her godfather was the Rev. W. H. Ridley, rector of Hambleden.
   In the “Ministry of Song” we read how Frances loved her name of Ridley, and that she bore it from one descended from the goldy and learned Bishop Ridley, of the noble army of martyrs.

               “But ‘what the R. doth represent’
                  I value and revere,
                A diamond clasp it seems to be,
                On golden chains, enlinking me
                In loyal love to England’s hope,
                   The Church I hold so dear.”

   “Our sweet baby,” her father wrote, “grows nicely.  She was baptized last Wednesday, ‘Frances Ridley.’  All are eager for her to be called Fanny, but I do not like it.”  However, as a child we called her Fanny, but from the time of the publication of her first book, “The Ministry of Song,” Frances was her usual signature, and she much preferred her baptismal name.  Her unique surname was spelt Heavergill in 1694, afterwards Havergill, or Havergall, but always Havergal since orthography in general ceased to vary.  The derivation of the name is thought to be “Heaver-gill, the heaving or rising of the brook or gill.”

–from MEMORIALS OF FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL by M.V.G.H.

   Perhaps you will be interested to know the origin of the consecration hymn, “Take my life.”  I went for a little visit of five days.  There were ten persons in the house, some unconverted and long prayed for, some converted but not rejoicing Christians.  He gave me the prayer, “Lord, give me all in this house!”  And He just did!  Before I left the house every one had got a blessing.  The last night of my visit I was too happy to sleep, and passed most of the night in praise and renewal of my own consecration, and these little couplets formed themselves and chimed in my heart one after another, till they finished with, “Ever, ONLY, ALL for Thee!”

–Frances Ridley Havergal from MEMORIALS

I COULD not do without Him!
     Jesus is more to me
Than all the richest, fairest gifts
   Of earth could ever be.
But the more I find Him precious–
   And the more I find Him true–
The more I long for you to find
   What He can be to you.

You need not do without Him,
   For He is passing by,
He is waiting to be gracious,
   Only waiting for your cry:
He is waiting to receive you–
   To make you all His own!
Why will you do without Him,
   And wander on alone?

Why will you do without Him?
   Is He not kind indeed?
Did he not die to save you?
   Is He not all you need?
Do you not want a Saviour?
   Do you not want a Friend?
One who will love you faithfully,
   And love you to the end?

Why will you do without Him?
    The Word of God is true!
The world is passing to its doom–
   And you are passing too.
It may be no to-morow
   Shall dawn on you or me;
Why will you run the awful risk
   Of all eternity?

What will you do without Him,
   In the long and dreary day
Of trouble and perplexity,
   When you do not know the way,
And no one else can help you,
   And no one guides you right,
And hope comes not with morning,
   And rest comes not with night?

You could not do without Him,
   If once He made you see
The fetters that enchain you,
   Till He hath set you free.
If once you saw the fearful load
   Of sin upon your soul;
The hidden plague that ends in death,
   Unless He makes you whole!

What will you do without Him,
   When death is drawing near?
Without His love–the only love
   That casts out every fear;
When the shadow-valley opens,
   Unlighted and unknown,
And the terrors of its darkness
   Must all be passed alone!

What will you do without Him,
   When the great white throne is set,
And the Judge who never can mistake,
   And never can forget,–
The Judge whom you have never here
   As Friend and Saviour sought,
Shall summon you to give account
   Of deed and word and thought?

What will you do without Him,
   When He hath shut the door,
And you are left outside, because
   You would not come before?
When it is no use knocking,
   No use to stand and wait;
For the word of doom tolls through your heart
   That terrible ‘Too late!’

You cannot do without Him!
   There is no other name
By which you ever can be saved,
   No way, no hope, no claim!
Without Him–everlasting loss
   Of love, and life, and light!
Without Him,–everlasting woe,
   And everlasting night.

But with Him–oh!  with Jesus!
   Are any words so blest?
With Jesus, everlasting joy
   And everlasting rest!
With Jesus–all the empty heart
   Filled with His perfect love;
With Jesus–perfect peace below,
   And perfect bliss above.

Why should you do without Him?
   It is not yet too late;
He has not shut the gate.
He calls you!  hush!  He calls you!
   He would not have you go
Another step without Him,
   Because He loves you so.

He would not do without you!
   He calls and calls again–
‘Come unto Me!  Come unto Me!’
   Oh, shall He call in vain?
He wants to have you with Him;
   Do you not want Him too?
You cannot do without Him,
   And He wants–even you.

–Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS

IN 1865-6 Miss Havergal went to Germany, and also remained for some time with her parents at Bonn.  At this time she was just discovering her musical talents, and her old friends, the Schulze-Berges, begged her to go to the Musical Academy of Cologne.  This, she declared, was out of the question, and then they suggested Ferdinand Hiller, the greatest living composer and authority, in their opinion.  Miss Havergal at first was appalled at the idea of showing her songs to such a great man, but at length concluded to do so, for if he did not approve of them she would not waste more time upon them.  She and her mother went to see him, by his appointment.  He gave Frances a book of poetry to amuse herself with, and himself sat down amid all his musical litter to read her songs, scaring her not a little by doing so.  She does not seem to have been very deeply engrossed in the book of poems!
   When Ferdinand Hiller was about three-quarters through her compositions he began to question her as to the kind, and the amount, of education she had had.  His verdict on her work, particularly her power of harmonisation, was that it was unusually good.  Of the harmonies he said he could give them almost unlimited praise.  He was astonished by them.  He assured her that it would take but a short time to place her in a state to give a good form to her musical ideas.
   This was all very surprising to Miss Havergal.  She had always been too humble-minded to believe what Dr. Marshall, at Oakhampton had said of her musical talents.  With regard to this she writes:  “I thought, if I had the talent he said I had I should feel cleverer, somehow, than I do.”
   She was able to play much of Handel, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn from memory, and her powers as a solo-singer were very much in request in the Philharmonic Society at Kidderminster.
   But, ever watchful of her spiritual state, she says:  “A power utterly new and unexpected was given me (singing and composition of music), and, rejoicing in this, I forgot the Giver, and found such delight in this that other things paled before it.  It need not have been so; and in better moments I prayed that if it were hindering me the gift of song might be withdrawn.  And now that, through my ill-health, it is so, and that the pleasure of public applause, when singing in the Philharmonic Concerts, is not again to exercise its delicious delusion, I do thank Him who heard my prayer.”  How intensely her heart yearned to keep in touch with her Lord, and how keenly sensitive her conscience was to anything which came between her soul and Him.  Very deep and real must her love have been that she could rejoice in the loss of her singing power, and in the loss of her “delicious delusion.”  How many of us would have cheated ourselves into the belief that to earn applause under such circumstances was all right, instead of recognising Satan in his robes of light, and praying the courageous prayer for the temptation to be removed?
   In 1866 her health was very bad, and she had to leave off most of her work.  She writes:  “My ill-health this summer has been most trying to me.  I am held back from much I wated to do in every way, and have had to lay poetising aside. . .I have a curious, vivid sense, not merely of my verse faculty in general being given me, but also of every separate poem or hymn, nay, every line being given.  It is peculiarly pleasant thus to take it as a direct gift, not a matter of effort, but purely involuntarily. . .”
   In “Finis,” a verse of which I have already quoted, she expresses the same thought:

             “I look up to my Father, and know that I am heard,
             And ask Him for the glowing thought, and for the
                  fitting word:
             I look up to my Father, for I cannot write alone,
             ‘Tis sweeter far to seek His strength than lean upon
                  my own.”

And surely it is on this account that her writings in poetry and prose have been so wonderfully blessed.

Excerpt from SINGERS OF ZION
Pickering & Inglis

                              ‘Keep my silver and my gold;
                              Not a mite would I withhold.’

‘THE silver and the gold is Mine, saith the Lord of hosts.’  Yes, every coin we have is literally our ‘Lord’s money.’  Simple belief of this fact is the stepping-stone to full consecration of what He has given us, whether much or little.
   ‘Then you mean to say we are never to spend anything on ourselves?’  Not so.  Another fact must be considered,–the fact that our Lord has given us our bodies as a special personal charge, and that we are responsible for keeping these bodies, according to the means given and the work required, in working order for Him.  This is part of our ‘own work.’ A master entrusts a workman with a delicate machine, with which his apppointed work is to be done.  He also provides him with a sum of money with which he is to procure all that may be necessary for keeping the machine in thorough repair.  Is it not obvious that it is the man’s distinct duty to see to this faithfully?  Would he not be failing in duty if he chose to spend it all on something for somebody else’s work, or on a present for his master, fancying that would please him better, while the machine is creaking and wearing for want of a little oil, or working badly for want of a new band or screw?  Just so, we are to spend what is really needful on ourselves, because we are not our own, but our Master’s.  He who knoweth our frame, knows its needs of rest and medicine, food and clothing; and the procuring of these for our own entrusted bodies should be done just as much ‘for Jesus’ as the greater pleasure of procuring them for some one else.  Therefore there need be no quibbling over the assertion that consecration is not real and complete while we are looking upon a single shilling as our own to do what we like with.  Also the principle is exactly the same, whether we are spending pence or pounds; it is our Lord’s money, and must not be spent without reference to Him.
   When we have asked Him to take, and continually trust Him to keep our money, ’shopping’ becomes a different thing.  We look up to our Lord for guidance to lay out His money prudently and rightly, and as He would have us lay it out.  The gift or garment is selected consciously under His eye, and with conscious reference to Him as our own dear Master, for whose sake we shall give it, or in whose service we shall wear it, and whose own silver or gold we shall pay for it, and then it is all right.
   But have you found out that it is one of the secrets of the Lord, that when any of His dear children turn aside a little bit after having once entered the blessed path of true and conscious consecration, He is sure to send them some little punishment?  He will not let us go back without a sharp, even if quite secret, reminder.  Go and spend ever such a little without reference to Him after you have once pledged the silver and gold entirely to Him, and see if you are not in some way rebuked for it!  Very often by being permitted to find that you have made a mistake in your purchase, or that in some way it does not prosper.  If you ‘observe these things,’ you will find that the more closely we are walking with our Lord, the more immediate and unmistakenable will be His gracious rebukes when we swerve in any detail of the full consecration to which He has called us.  And if you have already experienced and recognised this part of His personal dealing with us, you will know also how we love and bless Him for it.

–Frances Ridley Havergal from KEPT FOR THE MASTER’S USE

 

 
  ‘THERE is no rose without a thorn!’
     Who has not found this true,
  And known that griefs, of gladness born,
     Our footsteps still pursue?

That in the grandest harmony
   The strangest discords rise;
The brightest bow we only trace
   Upon the darkest skies?

No thornless rose!  So, more and more,
   Our pleasant hopes are laid
Where waves this sable legend o’er
   A still, sepulchral shade.

But Faith and Love, with angel-might,
   Break up life’s dismal tomb,
Transmuting into golden light
   The words of leaden gloom.

Reversing all this funeral pall,
   White raiment they disclose;
Their happy song floats full and long,
   ‘No thorn without a rose!’

‘No shadow, but its sister light
   Not far away must burn!
No weary night, but morning bright
   Shall follow in its turn.

‘No chilly snow, but safe below
   A million buds are sleeping;
No wintry days, but fair spring rays
   Are swiftly onward sweeping.

‘With fiercest glare of summer air
   Comes fullest leafy shade;
And ruddy fruit bends every shoot
   Because the blossoms fade.

‘No note of sorrow, but shall melt
   In sweetest chord unguessed;
No labour all too pressing felt,
   But ends in quiet rest.

‘No sigh, but from the harps above
   Soft echoing tones shall win;
No heart-wound, but the Lord of Love
   Shall pour His comfort in.

‘No withered hope, while loving best
   Thy Father’s chosen way;
No anxious care, for He will bear
   Thy burdens every day.

‘Thy claim to rest on Jesu’s breast
   All weariness shall be,
And pain thy portal to His heart
   Of boundless sympathy.

‘No conflict, but the King’s own hand
   Shall end the glorious strife;
No death, but leads thee to the land
   Of everlasting life.’

Sweet seraph voices, Faith and Love!
   Sing on within our hearts
This strain of music from above,
   Till we have learnt our parts;

Until we see your alchemy
   On all that years disclose,
And, taught by you, still find it true,
   ‘No thorn without a rose!’

–Frances Ridley Havergal from LIFE MOSAIC

“FANNY dear, pray to God to prepare you for all He is preparing for you,” said the dying mother to her little girl in pleading, solemn tones.
   Frances Ridley Havergal was about eleven years of age when these words were spoken to her, but she would not believe that her beloved mother was dying.  As she says in her autobiography, she shut her eyes in a very hardened way to those who tried to prepare her for it.  Mrs. Havergal was quite aware of this, and strove to lead her child to trust and love the Saviour that she might have comfort when the heavy blow should fall.
   “You are my youngest little girl, and I feel more anxious about you than the rest.  I do pray for the Holy Spirit to lead and guide you.  And remember nothing but the precious blood of Christ can make you clean and lovely in God’s sight.”
   But little Frances put it off, saying:
   “Oh, mamma, I’m sure you will get well again” and not even the mother’s solemn, glad affirmation that she would soon see her Saviour face to face could penetrate those wilfully closed little ears.
   When the end had really come, the child, highly strung and highly imaginative, hoped, until almost the very day of the funeral that her mother was only in a trance.  She had heard of people supposed to be dead who had recovered, and so, again and again she tiptoed into that room and stood looking upon the lovely face, half expecting the eyes to unclose and smile at her.
   Poor child!  they did not do so, and it was a grief-stricken little Frances who, on that sad day, peeped through a tiny space between blind and window to watch the funeral procession pass through the Rectory gates into the church.
   Mrs. Havergal died on 5th July, 1848, and that day little Frances wrote:

          “Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
             Neither can man’s heart conceive,
           The blessed things God hath prepared
              For those who love Him and believe.”

And again, on 9th July:

            “Oh!  had I the wings of a dove,
               Soon, soon would I be at my rest;
            I would fly to the Saviour I love
               And there would I lie on His breast.”

   These verses show how clear her head knowledge of the truths, but her heart was as yet unreached.  Her grief over her mother’s death was very great, but not always evident.  Her lively disposition enabled her to put it away and engage for the moment, intensely, on whatever she had on hand.  She writes:  “And thus it happened that a merry laugh or a sudden light-heeled scamper upstairs and downstairs led others to think I had not many sad thoughts, whereas not a minute before my little heart was heavy and sad.”
   Up to the age of six years, she said, she had not any thoughts or ideas on religion, but after that time she began to long (to use her own words) ”to be a Christian,” “to be made a Christian.”  And yet, as we have seen, how resisting even that dear, dying mother who, even when Frances was only four had tenderly taught her about the Lord Jesus. . .
    But during all her strivings after peace, and during the days when she did trouble at all, little Frances always knew the sinfulness of her heart.
   When she was about thirteen she went to school at Belmont, where Mrs. Teed, a godly, loving woman, whose heart was yearning to lead her girls to the Saviour, was concluding her long course of school work.
   One little schoolfellow, so gentle and so consistently good that all her companions fancied that she was already a Christian, found the Saviour at this time and the joy unspeakable and full of glory which radiated from her in consequence filled Frances with awe.  She never, never forgot how this loving girl tried to lead her to the same course of bliss that she, too, might know her sins forgiven.
   But it was not till two months or so later, February, 1851, that she really trusted her soul to the Lord Jesus Christ.  She was visiting at Oakhampton, the home of her sister Miriam, Mrs. Henry Crane.  Miss Cooke, who afterwards married Frances’ father, was there too, and this true child of God spoke the words which brought Frances to the point of trusting.
   ”Why cannot you trust yourself to the Saviour at once?” she asked.  “If Jesus should come now to take up His redeemed could you not trust Him?  Would not His call, His promise be enough for you?  Could you not commit your soul to Him, to your Saviour, Jesus?”  “I could, surely,” the little girl replied, and filled with a hope which made her literally breathless, she went upstairs, and though there was still a slight admixture of fear, she committed her soul to the Saviour–she did trust the Lord Jesus at last.  Her whole real happiness from that time lay in pleasing and serving Him.
   Yes, her soul was saved, she had committed it to Him, and she knew that He was able to keep it against that day.

“Why will you do without Him?
   The Word of God is true,
The world is passing to its doom–
   And you are passing too.
It may be no to-morrow
   Shall dawn on you or me;
Why will you run the awful risk
   Of all Eternity?

“He would not do without you!
   He calls and calls again–
‘Come unto Me!  Come unto Me!’
   Oh, shall He call in vain?
He wants to have you with Him;
   Do you not want Him too?
You cannot do without Him,
   And He wants–even you.”

Excerpts from SINGERS OF ZION
Pickering & Inglis
  

IN God’s great field of labour
   All work is not the same;
He hath a service for each one
   Who loves His holy name.
And you, to whom the secrets
   Of all sweet sounds are known,
Rise up!  for He hath called you
   To a mission of your own.
And, rightly to fulfil it,
   His grace can make you strong,
Who to your charge hath given
   The Ministry of Song.

Sing to the little children,
   And they will listen well;
Sing grand and holy music,
   For they can feel its spell,
Tell them the tale of Jephthah;
   Then sing them what he said,–
‘Deeper and deeper still,’ and watch
   How the little cheek grows red,
And the litttle breath comes quicker:
   They will ne’er forget the tale,
Which the song has fastened surely,
   As with a golden nail.

I remember, late one evening,
   How the music stopped, for, hark!
Charlie’s nursery door was open,
   He was calling in the dark,–
‘Oh no!  I am not frightened,
   And I do not want a light;
But I cannot sleep for thinking
   Of the song you sang last night.
Something about a “valley,”
   And “make rough places plain,”
And “Comfort ye;” so beautiful!
   Oh, sing it me again!’

Sing at the cottage bedside;
   They have no music there,
And the voice of praise is silent
   After the voice of prayer.
Sing of the gentle Saviour
   In the simplest hymns you know,
And the pain-dimmed eye will brighten
   As the soothing verses flow.
Better than loudest plaudits
   The murmured thanks of such,
For the King will stoop to crown them
   With His gracious ‘Inasmuch.’

 Sing, when the full-toned organ
    Resounds through aisle and nave,
 And the choral praise ascendeth
    In concord sweet and grave.
 Sing, where the village voices
    Fall harshly on your ear;
 And while more earnestly you join,
    Less discord you will hear.
 The noblest and the humblest
    Alike are ‘common praise,’
 And not for human ear alone
    The psalm and hymn we raise.

Sing in the deepening twilight,
   When the shadow of eve is nigh,
And her purple and golden pinions
   Fold o’er the western sky.
Sing in the silver silence,
   While the first moonbeams fall;
So shall your power be greater
   Over the hearts of all.
Sing till you hear them with you
   Into a holy calm,
And the sacred tones have scattered
   Manna, and myrrh, and balm.

Sing!  that your song may gladden;
   Sing like the happy rills,
Leaping in sparkling blessing
   Fresh from the breezy hills.
Sing!  that your song may silence
   The folly and the just,
And the ‘idle word’ be banished
   As an unwelcome guest.
Sing!  that our song may echo
   After the strain is past,
A link of the love-wrought cable
   That holds some vessel fast.

Sing to the tired and anxious
   It is yours to fling a ray,
Passing indeed, but cheering,
   Across the rugged way.
Sing to God’s holy servants,
   Weary with loving toil,
Spent with their faithful labour
   On oft ungrateful soil.
The chalice of your music
   All reverently bear,
For with the bless`ed angels,
   Such ministry you share.

When you long to bear the Message
   Home to some troubled breast,
Then sing with loving fervour,
   ‘Come unto Him, and rest.’
Or would you whisper comfort,
   Where words bring no relief,
Sing how, ‘He was despis`ed,
   Acquainted with our grief.’
And, aided by His blessing,
   The song may win its way
Where speech had no admittance,
   And change the night to day.

Sing, when His mighty mercies
   And marvellous love you feel,
And the deep joy of gratitude
   Springs freshly as you kneel;
When words, like morning starlight,
   Melt powerless,–rise and sing!
And bring your sweetest music
   To Him, your gracious King.
Pour out your song before Him
   To whom our best is due;
Remember, He who hears your prayer
   Will hear your praises too.

Sing on in grateful gladness!
   Rejoice in this good thing
Which the Lord thy God hath given thee,
   The happy power to sing,
But yield to Him, the Sovereign,
   To whom all gifts belong,
In fullest consecration,
   Your Ministry of Song,
Until His mercy grant you
   That resurrection voice,
Whose only ministry shall be,
   To praise Him and rejoice.

–Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS