HYMN.
And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the Mount of Olives.—Matthew, xxvi. 30.
Whose business was to serve their Lord,
High up in heav’n with songs to hymn His throne.
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They touched their golden harps, and hymning praised
God and His works.
Milton.
Then, kneeling down, to Heaven’s Eternal King
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
That thus they all shall meet in future days:
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear;
Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
In such society yet still more dear,
When circling time moves round, in an eternal sphere.
Burns.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
Perhaps “Dundee’s” wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive “Martyrs,” worthy of the name;
Or noble “Elgin” feeds the heav’n-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.
Burns.
There is no gloom on earth, for God above
Chastens in love;
Transmuting sorrow into golden joy,
Free from alloy.
His dearest attribute is still to bless,
And man’s most welcome hymn is grateful cheerfulness.
Horace Smith.
Celestial voices
Hymn it unto our souls.
R. H. Dana.