“I heard the voice of Jesus say,” etc..

and

   “I lay my sins on Jesus,” etc,

were originally composed for the children of his Sabbath school.  And yet they are the productions by which he has become most widely known throughout Christendom.  The storm-swept streets that day were lined with silent mourners; and, under weeping skies, we laid down to his rest the mortal remains of the man who attuned more voices to the melodies of praise than any Scotchman of the century.

Our own country has been very prolific in the production of hymns.  The venerable and devout blind songstress, Fanny Crosby (whom I often meet at the house of my beloved neighbor, Mr. Ira D. Sankey), has produced very many hundreds of them—­none of very high poetic merit, but many of them of such rich spiritual savour, and set to such stirring airs, that they are sung by millions around the globe.  By common consent in all American hymnology the hymn commencing

   “My faith looks up to Thee,
   Thou Lamb of Calvary,” etc,

is the best.  Its author, Dr. Ray Palmer, when a young man, teaching in a school for girls in New York, one day sat down in his room and wrote in his pocket memorandum book the four verses which he told me “were born of my own soul,” and put the memorandum book back into his vest pocket and for two years carried the verses there, little dreaming that he was carrying his own passport to immortality.  Dr. Lowell Mason, the celebrated composer of Boston, asked him to furnish a new hymn for his next volume of “Spiritual Songs” for social worship, and young Palmer drew out the four verses from his pocket.  Mason composed for them the noble tune, “Olivet,” and to that air they were wedded for ever more.  He met Palmer afterwards, and said to him:  “Sir, you may live many years, and do many things, but you will be best known to posterity as the author of ‘My faith looks up to Thee.’” The prediction proved true.  His devoted heart flowed out in that one matchless lily that has filled so many hearts and sanctuaries with its rich fragrance.  Dr. Palmer preached several times in my Brooklyn pulpit.  He was once with us on a sacramental Sabbath.  While the deacons were passing the sacred elements among the congregation the dear old man broke out in a tremulous voice and sang his own heavenly lines: 

   “My faith looks up to Thee
   Thou Lamb of Calvary,
   Saviour Divine.”

It was like listening to a rehearsal for the celestial choir, and the whole assembly was most deeply moved.  Dr. Palmer was short in stature, but his erect form and habit of brushing his hair high over his forehead gave him a commanding look.  He was the impersonation of genuine enthusiasm.  Some of his letters I shall always prize.  They were the outpourings of his own warm heart on paper.  He fell asleep just before he reached a round four score, and of our many hymn-writers no one has yet “taken away his crown.”