Scripture Verse

Introduction

Origin of the Hymn

Mrs. Mary Hoo­ver, of Belle­fonte, Penn­syl­vania, whose grand­mo­ther was the he­ro­ine of the sto­ry, has re­lat­ed to her pas­tor this fa­mi­ly tra­di­tion:

Charles Wes­ley was preach­ing in the fields of the par­ish of Kil­ly­leagh, Coun­ty Down, Ire­land, when he was at­tacked by men who did not ap­prove of his doc­trines.

He sought re­fuge in a house lo­cat­ed on what was known as the Is­land Barn Farm. The farm­er’s wife, Jane Low­rie Moore, told him to hide in the milk house, down in the gar­den.

Soon the mob came and de­mand­ed the fu­gi­tive. She tried to qui­et them by of­fer­ing them re­fresh­ments.

Going down to the milk house, she di­rect­ed Mr. Wes­ley to get through the rear win­dow and hide un­der the hedge, by which ran a lit­tle brook. In that hid­ing place, with the cries of his pur­su­ers all about him, he wrote this im­mor­tal hymn.

Descendants of Mrs. Moore still live in the house, which is much the same as it was in Wes­ley’s time.

Sankey, pp. 172–73

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In the [Ame­ri­can] Ci­vil War of the (eight­een) six­ties ma­ny drum­mer boys had left school to join the ar­my. One of them, named Tom, was called the young dea­con, as he was a great fa­vo­rite and was re­spect­ed by the sol­diers for his re­li­gious life. Both his wi­dowed mo­ther and his sis­ter were dead, so he had gone to war.

One day he told the chap­lain he had had a dream the night be­fore. In his sleep he was greet­ed home again by his mo­ther and lit­tle sis­ter. How glad they were! he said. My mo­ther pressed me to her heart. I didn’t seem to re­mem­ber they were dead. O, sir, it was just as real as you are real now!

Thank God, Tom, re­plied the chap­lain, that you have such a mo­ther, not real­ly dead but in hea­ven, and that you are hop­ing through Christ to meet her again.

The fol­low­ing day in fright­ful bat­tle both ar­mies swept ov­er the same ground four times, and at night be­tween the two ar­mies lay ma­ny dead and wound­ed that nei­ther dared ap­proach.

Tom was miss­ing; but when the bat­tle roar was ov­er they re­cog­nized his voice sing­ing, soft­ly and beau­ti­ful­ly, Je­sus, Lov­er of my soul. When he had sung, Leave, ah! leave me not alone, still sup­port and com­fort me, the voice stopped and there was si­lence.

In the morn­ing the sol­diers found Tom sit­ting on the ground and lean­ing against a stump—dead. But they knew that his help­less soul had found re­fuge with Je­sus, the Lov­er of the soul.

Price, p. 21

Some have called this the fin­est hymn in the Eng­lish lang­uage.