Luther is said to have written the following hymn when on his way to the town of Worms, and conscious that his life was placed in grave peril :

'A safe stronghold our God is still,

A trusty shield and weapon;
He'll help to clear from all the ill
That hath us now o'ertaken.
The ancient prince of hell
Hath risen with purpose fell;
Strong mail of craft and power
He weareth in this hour,

On earth is not his fellow.

'With force of arms we nothing can,
Full soon were we down-ridden;
But for us fights the proper Man,
Whom God Himself hath bidden.
Ask ye, Who is this same?
Christ Jesus is His name,
The Lord Sabaoth's Son :
He, and no other one,
Shall conquer in the battle.

'And were this world all devils o'er,
And watching to devour us,
We lay it not to heart so sore;
Not they can overpower us.
And let the prince of ill
Look grim as e'er he will,
He harms us not a whit;
For why? his doom is writ;
A word shall quickly slay him.

'God's word, for all their craft and force, One moment will not linger,

But, spite of hell, shall have its course ;
'Tis written by His finger.

And though they take our life,
Goods, honour, children, wife,
Yet is their profit small;

These things shall vanish ali :
The city of God remaineth.'

The last hymn read to Augustus Hare, on his death-bed at Rome, February, 1834, was the following:

'Why should I fear the darkest hour, Or tremble at the tempest's power? Jesus vouchsafes to be my tower.

'Though hot the fight, why quit the field? Why must I either flee or yield, Since Jesus is my mighty shield?

'When creature comforts fade and die, Worldlings may weep, but why should I? Jesus still lives, and still is nigh.

Though all the flocks and herds were dead,
My soul a famine need not dread,
For Jesus is my living bread.

'I know not what may soon betide,
Or how my wants shall be supplied;
But Jesus knows, and will provide.

Though sin would fill me with distress,
The throne of grace I dare address,
For Jesus is my righteousness.

'Though faint my prayers, and cold my love,
My steadfast faith shall not remove,
While Jesus intercedes above.

'Against me earth and hell combine; But on my side is power Divine ; Jesus is all, and He is mine.'

Newton.

The following hymn, composed by Dean Alford, was sung in St. Martin's Churchyard, Canterbury, when the Dean, amid the tears of the whole sorrowing city, was laid in his final resting-place. A few minutes before, in the earlier part of the service, the grand nave of the cathedral had resounded with the strains of his other well-known hymn: 'Jesus, when I fainting lie.'

'Ten thousand times ten thousand,
In sparkling raiment bright,
The armies of the ransomed saints
Throng up the steeps of light:
'Tis finished! all is finished,

Their fight with death and sin;
Fling open wide the golden gates,
And let the victors in.

'What rush of Alleluias

เ

Fills all the earth and sky!
What ringing of a thousand harps
Bespeaks the triumph nigh!
O day, for which creation

And all its tribes were made!
O joy, for all its former woes
A thousand-fold repaid!

Oh, then what raptured greetings
On Canaan's happy shore !
What knitting severed friendships up
Where partings are no more!
Then eyes with joy shall sparkle
That brimmed with tears of late;
Orphans no longer fatherless,
Nor widows desolate.

'Bring near Thy great salvation,

Thou Lamb for sinners slain;
Fill up the roll of Thine elect,
Then take Thy power and reign :
Appear, Desire of nations,

Thine exiles long for home;

Show in the heavens Thy promised sign, Thou Prince and Saviour, come.'

The hymn sung in the service, to which reference has been made, reads thus:

'Jesus, when I fainting lie,
And the world is flitting by,
Hold Thou up my head:

When the cry is, "Thou must die,"
And the awful hour draws nigh,
Stand by my bed!

'Jesus, when the worst is o'er,
And they bear me from the door,
Meet the sorrowing throng;

66

Weep not," let the mourners hear,
Widow's woe and orphan's tear
Turn into song.

'Jesus, in that last great day

Come Thou down and touch my clay;

Speak the word "Arise."
Friend to gladsome friend restore,
Living, praising evermore
Above the skies.'

The late Emperor Frederick of Germany often found comfort in hymns, and especially in one which was written by a youth, named Ernest von Willich, at the age of twelve, when the boy lay on a sick-bed from which he never rose again. The hymn was frequently sung by the Crown Prince, and when he became Emperor he had it published, and it is known all over Germany as his favourite hymn.