GOOD FRIDAY'S 'ALAS!'

The man who wrote the classic 18^th century Good Friday hymn, “Alas! And Did My Savior Bleed,” was well-acquainted with rejection himself. His rejection, however, was from a woman's withdrawn love, not necessarily from his contemporaries. In fact, Isaac Watts (1674-1748) was what we'd today call a genius, a prolific and popular hymn writer (credited with some 750 hymns) and essayist.

Quickly, the backstory on his life. He was born in 1674 in Southampton, England, in a time of religious controversy. His father's dissenting views with the state church led twice to imprisonment. Biographers tell of Isaac's mother nursing baby Isaac as she sat outside the prison near his father's cell window.

As Watts grew, his genius unfolded. Even in early childhood he had a knack for rhyme which both amused and frustrated his parents. When scolded for keeping his eyes open during prayers, he replied: “A little mouse for want of stairs, ran up a rope to say its prayers.” Even after a spanking for his rhyming habit, he replied, “O father, father, pity take/And I will no more verses make.”

Because his family's theological stance was “non-conformist,” he couldn't attend the Anglican-restricted universities of Oxford or Cambridge, but instead was educated at the “Dissenting Academy.” He pastored a large independent chapel a few years, but poor health forced him to quit. Instead, he worked as a private tutor, eventually becoming a permanent resident at one of his clients' estate.

His prolific writing output included many books about the Bible, theology, logic and other topics. Add to that the huge output of hymns, including many still sung today: “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” “Joy to the World,” “O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” “Jesus Shall Reign Wherever the Son,” and today's feature, “Alas, and Did My Savior Bleed.”

He also wrote a book of songs that became the first hymnal ever published only for children. He loved children, but sadly never married or became a father. He did have a girlfriend, of sorts, a fan of his works whom he met by letter. When she finally traveled to meet him, she was put off by his less-than-handsome appearance. Small (five feet tall) and frail, he had a huge head and a long-hooked nose. Sadly, that ended her “crush” on him.

Frail in health, for his last thirty-plus years Watts lived with a nobleman friend (and later the friend's widow and daughter), never to know the centuries-long impacts of his hymn-writing. Notably, about 1850—a hundred years after Watts died—a 30-year-old blind woman went to a revival service in New York City. There, she heard a choir sing Watts' hymn, “Alas! And Did My Savior Bleed?” The hymn stirred her heart, especially the last line, “Here, Lord, I give my life away.” That day, she gave her life to Jesus. Her name: Fanny Crosby. Living to age 95, she would become the greatest gospel lyric composer of her time—by some sources, writing more than 8,000 hymns.

CROSSED

It’s ironic that the adjective form of “cross” means “marked by bad temper, grumpy.”  The verb forms indicate “to contradict, obstruct.”  But at Easter, there is no greater meaning than "amazing love" for the symbol of an upright and transverse beam. Often at this time of year, I recall the quiet, simple hymn titled “Lead Me to Calvary.” I never paid much attention to the author of the lyrics. Now that I know her story, it means all the more.

A fourth generation Quaker, Jennie Hussey was born in 1874 on the family farm in New Hampshire. You hear her Quaker upbringing in the “thee’s” and “thou’s” in this hymn’s diction. Before long her life was reshaped by the crippling effects of rheumatism. But she couldn’t sit around feeling sorry for herself. She had a sibling who had even greater physical ailments, and Jenny spent much of her life caring for this disabled sister. Instead of complaining about her lot in life, Jennie reportedly had an upbeat attitude about life.

Besides care-giving and writing hymn lyrics (some 150 besides “Lead Me to Calvary”), she wrote children’s stories, devised crocheting and needlework patterns, and published articles about flowers. Eventually, she, too, became an invalid from her rheumatism, dying in a care home at 84.Little more is known about her except that, like King David, she expressed her faith through poetry. Hear the heart honed by suffering in lyrics like the fourth verse of “Lead me to Calvary”:
May I be willing, Lord, to bear/Daily my cross for thee;
Even thy cup of grief to share, Thou hast borne all for me.
Her focus was summarized in the chorus:
Lest I forget Gethsemane; Lest I forget Thine agony;
Lest I forget thy love for me, Lead me to Calvary.

Could it be, that in our secularization of Easter into a spring festival with bunnies, egg hunts, and new clothes, that we’ve shut out the agonizing yet amazing message of the cross? Yes, we need to shout, “He is risen! He is risen indeed!” and sing “Up from the grave He arose!” But it’s important to backtrack regularly to Friday, to a cross, and be reminded of what it cost God to reconcile sinful man to Himself. 

Following Christ doesn’t mean everything turns out rosy. We may be asked to carry a cross.  Perhaps, like Jenny Hussey, we’ll be assigned the care of a sick or troubled person.  Perhaps, like for her, fragile health will define our days.  But our attitude can turn on three simple words, “Lest I forget.”  And that can make the difference.

It's Friday, but...

The hardest part about Easter is the Friday before. My church’s Good Friday service ends in darkness with a recording of thunder and storm, and then the wham of a bass drum. And quiet.

The tomb.

That’s the mood I brought this morning to scripture reading. My journey back through Psalms landed me at Psalm 17, a sweet song of seeking to live for God in the midst of arrogance and evil.

“Friday” is the violent (v. 4), the wicked and mortal enemies (v. 9), calloused hearts and arrogant mouths (v.10), predators (vs. 11-12), people whose reward is “this life” (v. 14). It’s life without hope of something better or something pure or something with God.

It’s life without Sunday coming. Without Easter.

A relative died last week at 47. So did a godly friend, at 63, barely home from a trip to Israel to walk where Jesus walked. Such news came like the wham of a bass drum. But to borrow the title of a sermon by Tony Campolo, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.” Easter Sunday has come. Death is not the final “wham.” Thus the hope expressed at the end of Psalm 17:
As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness: I shall be satisfied, when I awake, with thy likeness.
Or, as translated with greater accuracy and fuller meaning in the Amplified Bible:
As for me, I will continue beholding Your face in righteousness (rightness, justice, and right standing with You); I shall be fully satisfied, when I awake [to find myself] beholding Your form [and having sweet communion with You].

One of my favorite Christian songs asks us to imagine waking up in glory, and finding it Home. That’s Easter. Not eggs, bunnies, or new clothes, but glory and hope forever after hopeless Friday.