Each Member of the Family Sang a Verse
The description must be quoted in full as it appeared in The Christian Advocate:
“When I was in Rome a friend came to me asking if I would be a pallbearer at the funeral of a young American girl. Her family wished only Americans present at the little service. I went to the room where the casket stood and presently the family entered—a noble lady, evidently the mother, a daughter and two sons, the eldest leading a little girl. They surrounded the casket and softly repeated the Apostles’ Creed. Then the mother’s voice, uncertain and trembling, began:
“‘Shall we gather at the river
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?’
“All joined her in the chorus. Then the eldest son, a grown man, sang:
‘On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will walk and worship ever,
All the happy golden day.’
“After the chorus there was silence—a choking silence that benumbed me. Then my friend whispered, ‘It is their family prayer service and it is her verse.’ Then the little girl was lifted in her father’s arms, and sweet and clear and wonderingly came:
‘Ere we reach the shining river
Lay we every burden down,
Grace our spirits will deliver
And provide a robe and crown.’
“I do not know how I endured it, the emotion of that moment. In a broken manner they sobbed through the chorus and then the younger brother, a lad of fourteen, sang:
‘At the smiling of the river,
Mirror of the Saviour’s face
Saints whom death will never sever
Lift their songs of saving grace.’
“His voice was so confident that it steadied all present and the chorus rang out clearly. Then all together they sang:
‘Soon we’ll reach the silver river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease,
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace.’
“And the chorus was strong, clear and almost exultant. After repeating the Lord’s Prayer, the minister read the service and we went to the grave. On the way my friend told me of the many times he had been present at this same little family service in the Michigan home when each sang his verse in the old hymn. ‘The last verse was father’s, and after his death they all sang it for him, and now the little granddaughter had picked up the broken thread of song for her sweet young auntie.’
‘What a wonderful glorification of a poor little hymn!’
“‘Truly so,’ he agreed. ‘I never before had much respect for that piece.’”
The faith and loyalty of a noble Christian were remembered when his daughter