Because we aren't allowed to post pictures of anything in the library, I can't show you the faded ink on a yellowing page, and even if I could do that, I couldn't share the unmistakable smell of OLD with you through a computer screen. But imagine, if you will, a small, worn brown book, bound sometime in the early 1800's, bearing the simple title Manuscript Hymns. That's it. No name on the spine, no hint of the treasures within. Just -- Manuscript Hymns.
Until the book is opened reverently, quietly, almost breathlessly, and the bookplate inside the front cover tells you that it once belonged to the Rev. Thomas Jackson and then to the Wesleyan Theological Institution. You quickly discover that it is a collection of printed early Methodist hymnals with a healthy scattering of manuscript hymns (there's that title again) throughout. It falls open easily to one well-known, beloved Christmas hymn, though with a slightly different title -- "Hark, How All the Welkin Rings" is there in Charles Wesley's small, neat handwriting, followed by a hymn written for Epiphany.
Several blank pages follow and then the printed collection of Hymns for our Lord's Resurrection. Then suddenly, when least expected, another manuscript appears in the midst of the printed text, and the words fairly fly off the page -- "Christ, the Lord is Risen Today!" 11 stanzas, much of it familiar, some of it less so, all of it straight from the warmed heart of the Wesley brother best remembered for his religious poetry and hymns, sung for hundreds of years in almost every denomination on the planet.
Hail the Lord of Earth and Heaven!
Praise to Thee by both be given:
Thee we greet triumphant now,
Hail the Resurrection Thou!
King of Glory, Soul of Bliss,
Everlasting Life is this
Thee to know, thy Power to prove,
Thus to sing, and thus to love.
The Alleluias we are familiar with were added later, but even without them, the joy, the assurance, the utter abandon into the trusted arms of a resurrected Christ shine through every syllable from Charles' pen. The script on the page may be faded, but this is no dead historical artifact; this is a living faith.
And my eyes fill with tears, and I have a lump in my throat, and I think of saints who are already gone, people whose lives and faith gave shape and meaning to my own, and I want to lay my head down on the desk in this quietly studious room and weep with the knowledge that they now see face to face while I am still looking into a mirror darkly.
And I once again give thanks for the lives of the Wesleys and for the faith that began with their mother Susanna's structured home life governed by prayer and study of scripture and to redeeming every possible moment. I give thanks for the love for liturgy and preaching and decency and order that blossomed in their father Samuel's parish church in Epworth. I give thanks for the holy boldness they inherited from both parents that sent them out into the highways and fields when the pulpits of many churches were denied them. But I also feel deep sorrow for their seven sisters, young women of promise and intelligence and learning whose lives were curtailed by eighteenth century expectations and conventions that defined women by their sex and denied them the opportunities their brothers made such good use of.
Despite the many tragedies and painful circumstances that came their way, the Wesleys remained people of deep faith. These were women and men who used their reason and their study of scripture and their lively conversations/arguments about theology to work out their own salvation with fear and trembling, and they didn't always agree with each other, but their foundation was always Christ, the Resurrected One, in whom they lived, moved, and had their being. What a testimony their letters and hymns and sermons leave behind them! What comfort that brings me and to so many others who struggle here below.
And so, under my breath, so I won't annoy the other researchers seated around me, I hum to myself and even sing the words,
Made like him, like him we rise
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies
Alleluia, indeed!
Until the book is opened reverently, quietly, almost breathlessly, and the bookplate inside the front cover tells you that it once belonged to the Rev. Thomas Jackson and then to the Wesleyan Theological Institution. You quickly discover that it is a collection of printed early Methodist hymnals with a healthy scattering of manuscript hymns (there's that title again) throughout. It falls open easily to one well-known, beloved Christmas hymn, though with a slightly different title -- "Hark, How All the Welkin Rings" is there in Charles Wesley's small, neat handwriting, followed by a hymn written for Epiphany.
Several blank pages follow and then the printed collection of Hymns for our Lord's Resurrection. Then suddenly, when least expected, another manuscript appears in the midst of the printed text, and the words fairly fly off the page -- "Christ, the Lord is Risen Today!" 11 stanzas, much of it familiar, some of it less so, all of it straight from the warmed heart of the Wesley brother best remembered for his religious poetry and hymns, sung for hundreds of years in almost every denomination on the planet.
Hail the Lord of Earth and Heaven!
Praise to Thee by both be given:
Thee we greet triumphant now,
Hail the Resurrection Thou!
King of Glory, Soul of Bliss,
Everlasting Life is this
Thee to know, thy Power to prove,
Thus to sing, and thus to love.
The Alleluias we are familiar with were added later, but even without them, the joy, the assurance, the utter abandon into the trusted arms of a resurrected Christ shine through every syllable from Charles' pen. The script on the page may be faded, but this is no dead historical artifact; this is a living faith.
And my eyes fill with tears, and I have a lump in my throat, and I think of saints who are already gone, people whose lives and faith gave shape and meaning to my own, and I want to lay my head down on the desk in this quietly studious room and weep with the knowledge that they now see face to face while I am still looking into a mirror darkly.
And I once again give thanks for the lives of the Wesleys and for the faith that began with their mother Susanna's structured home life governed by prayer and study of scripture and to redeeming every possible moment. I give thanks for the love for liturgy and preaching and decency and order that blossomed in their father Samuel's parish church in Epworth. I give thanks for the holy boldness they inherited from both parents that sent them out into the highways and fields when the pulpits of many churches were denied them. But I also feel deep sorrow for their seven sisters, young women of promise and intelligence and learning whose lives were curtailed by eighteenth century expectations and conventions that defined women by their sex and denied them the opportunities their brothers made such good use of.
Despite the many tragedies and painful circumstances that came their way, the Wesleys remained people of deep faith. These were women and men who used their reason and their study of scripture and their lively conversations/arguments about theology to work out their own salvation with fear and trembling, and they didn't always agree with each other, but their foundation was always Christ, the Resurrected One, in whom they lived, moved, and had their being. What a testimony their letters and hymns and sermons leave behind them! What comfort that brings me and to so many others who struggle here below.
And so, under my breath, so I won't annoy the other researchers seated around me, I hum to myself and even sing the words,
Made like him, like him we rise
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies
Alleluia, indeed!
I will go back to Wroot ... and find Mary, John's sister and leave a wee flower from you there.
ReplyDeleteI was tangibly there with you in the library as I read what you have written... the smell the aging pages ... and the breath that's held as the words speak to your heart
Oh, please do leave her a flower for me! I feel sure we walked right past her when we were there. Did you ever find out who left Samuel his substantial poesy? I'm glad you enjoyed reading about the John Rylands. It is a magical place filled with treasure upon treasure, even beyond the Wesley stuff.
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