Chapter D: S. Warner. B. E. Warren (1)

1. Let us sing the name of Jesus, oh, that name we love so dear!
Sweetest anthem
2. Sing the love-ly name of Jesus, oh, the precious Lamb of God!
Lo, he died our
3. Sing, oh, sing the name of Jesus, he is wor-thy, he a-lone,
Glo-ry, hon-or,
4. We will sing the name of Jesus all a-long the path of life,
We will sing it,

earth or heaven ever breathed on mortal ear; In that name we have
salvation, oh, how
souls to ran-som, he redeemed us by his blood; Let the joy-ful
o-ver-flow-ing of our
and salvation, chant with angels round the throne; Sing it soft-ly
in the Spir-it, sing it
hal-le-lu-jah, 'mid the battle and the strife; We will sing it all
to-geth-er when we

pre-cious is the flow! Sing, oh, sing the name of Jesus, for it makes
us white as snow.
hearts so full of love, Sound aloud the name of Jesus with the might-y
host a-bove.
loud as thunders roll, Sing with rapture, hallelujah, to the Lamb that
saved my soul.
meet upon that shore, Oh, we'll sing the name of Jesus, blessed name
forevermore.

CHORUS.

Sing it a-gain,... sing it a-gain,... Sweetest of all the names that
The precious name, the precious name,

an-gels sing a-bove,... Jesus, thy name's a fountain of redeeming
love....
]

XVII

THE MINISTRY OF SONG

Scarcely a spiritual movement in the history of Christianity has been without its service of song. The emotions, whether of victory or of devotion or of interest in the salvation of the lost, naturally flow out in singing. Far back in Biblical history we find songs of victory attending the triumphs of the people of God.

The Wesleyan reformation, through its gifted hymn-writer, Charles Wesley, furnished many of the standard spiritual hymns that are in use today. Witness also the immortal gospel hymns that originated with the Moody and Sankey revivals of the last century. Likewise the holiness movement of forty and fifty years ago was characterized by its holiness songs. And so in these last times, when we have come to the full standard of truth and the full development of the church independent of human creeds, when the "ransomed of the Lord" are returning over the "highway" prepared, what wonder is it that they should "come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads" (Isa. 35:10)? In no respect was the inception of the present reformation more marked than in its ministry of holy song.

For the writing of spiritual hymns Brother Warner had a wonderful endowment. It seems that the development of this gift came, however, only with his entrance upon the special work of the reformation. In his earliest writings we find no examples of hymns or poems of any merit. A few verses in his diary betray a lack of familiarity with the principles of prosody, or hymn-writing. Considering the little time he had to devote to the study of those principles, it is marvelous that he produced so many useful, and we may say excellent, hymns during the few short years of his intensive ministerial labor.

His first effort appears to have been the adaptation of existing hymns either by rearrangement of the words or by composing new words to fit the tunes. Thus we have the Glory, Halleluiah song with new words appearing in an early copy of the Gospel Trumpet. The chorus is familiar to all and we omit it.

On the mountain top of vision what a glory we behold!
Eighteen hundred years of victory are tinging earth with gold;
For the saints are overcoming with their testimony bold,
The truth is marching on.

For the glory of the Father Jesus taught in Galilee,
And preached the great salvation that delivers you and me;
And a million voices shout it, "Redemption's full and free,"
The truth is marching on.

From the cabin on the prairie, from the vaulted city dome,
From the dark and briny ocean where our sailor brothers roam,
We hear the glad rejoicing like a happy harvest-home,
Salvation's rolling on.

Eighteen hundred years of marching, eighteen hundred years of song,
The Conqueror advances, and the time will not be long,
When he shall come in glory and overthrow the wrong,
Our God is marching on.

Nahum's chariots are speeding as the lightning on their way,
And their flying torches tell us 'tis the preparation day;
For the bride is getting ready and the Lord will not delay.
The marriage feast is near.

Precious knowledge is increasing, evening light begins to glow,
With the trump of full salvation many running to and fro;
And the song of glory echoes, Christ has washed us white as snow,
All glory to his name!

The long dispersed remnant of Jehovah's chosen race
Are flying from all nations to their ancient dwelling-place;
And the sinful world is surely in its closing-day of grace,
The Lord is just at hand.

In the valley of decision there's a battle drawing near,
Sectish Gog and Magog powers round about the saints appear;
But our God is our munition and our hearts shall never fear,
The victory is sure.

On the blissful heights of glory we will shout the battle o'er,
And in the golden city we will join the Conqueror,
And when the war is over, with the saints forevermore
And crown him with all praise.

On the subject of the church--a prominent subject with him--we have Brother Warner's arrangement of Frances Ridley Havergal's poem, Church of God. We give but two stanzas.

Church of God, thou spotless virgin,
Church of Christ for whom he died,
Thou hast known no human founder,
Jesus bought thee for his bride.
Sanctified by God the Father,
Built by Jesus Christ the Son,
Tempered by the Holy Spirit,
Like the Holy Three in one.

God himself has set the members
In his body all complete,
Organized by Jesus only,
Oh, the union pure and sweet!
Church of God, the angels marvel,
At the music of thy song;
Earth and hell in terror tremble
As thy army moves along.

Another of the class of adapted hymns was one on the exercise of faith for sanctification, sung to the tune of Beulah Land.

Why should a doubt or fear arise,
As this poor little all of mine
I lay a living sacrifice,
All on the altar, Christ divine.

=Chorus=

I'm fully thine, yes, wholly thine,
All on the altar, Christ divine.
The word of Jesus I believe,
The Sanctifier I receive;
All on the altar I abide,
And Jesus says I'm sanctified.

Ah, not a moment more I'll doubt,
And not a moment longer wait;
He shed his blood to sanctify,
He suffered death without the gate.

By faith I venture on his Word,
My doubts are o'er, the vict'ry won;
He said the altar sanctifies,
I just believe him, and 'tis done.

Through all my soul I feel his power,
And in the precious cleansing wave
I wash my garments white this hour,
And prove his utmost power to save.

Still another was The Hand of God on the Wall, of which we quote but two verses.

See, the great king of Babel in these latter days of time
Makes a feast that's universal, all the nations drink her wine;
As they eat, drink, and revel in her lofty steepled hall,
God proclaims her desolation by his hand upon the wall.

How the nations are drunken and are sporting in their shame!
Even scoffing at our Savior and profane his holy name;
Far more blind than Belshazzar, who so trembled with appal,
They still riot on to judgment, with their doom upon the wall.

Brother Warner was not gifted in writing tunes. This necessary counterpart was supplied in J. C. Fisher and his wife, Allie R., also in H. R. Jeffrey, a brother who lived in northern Indiana. Fisher frequently wrote both words and music, as did also Jeffrey. One of the first hymns of which both words and music were original with this reformation was The All Cleansing Fountain, by J. C. Fisher. The first stanza and chorus are as follows:

There's a fountain opened in the house of God,
Where the vilest of sinners may go
And all test the power of that crimson flood,
Of the blood that makes whiter than snow.

=Chorus=

Praise the Lord, I am washed
In the all-cleansing blood of the Lamb,
And my robes are whiter than the driven snow,
I am washed in the blood of the Lamb.

Another early one was H. R. Jeffrey's Songs of Victory, of which the first stanza and chorus will also here suffice.

Songs of victory bringing
Unto the Lord most high,
Victory, victory singing,
Let all the saints draw nigh;
For there can be no failure
While Jesus leads the van,
And victory, victory, victory,
Is heard on every hand.

=Chorus=

Vict'ry shall be the chorus,
Vict'ry our watchword and song,
Jesus is marching before us,
Leading his army along.

A hymn that breathes a deep spirit of devotion was Brother Warner's I Ought to Love My Savior, music by Fisher. There were five stanzas in all. We give it with music at the beginning of Chapter IX of this book.

I ought to love my Savior,
He loved me long ago,
Looked on my soul with favor,
When deep in guilt and woe;
And though my sin had grieved him,
His father's law had crossed,
Love drew him down from heaven
To seek and save the lost.

I ought to love my Savior,
He bore my sin and shame;
From glory to the manger,
On wings of love he came.
He trod this earth in sorrow,
Endured the pains of hell,
That I should not be banished,
But in his glory dwell.

We shall refer, in what follows, only to Brother Warner's hymns. One that sung of the times as being prophetic was entitled Prophetic Truth, and is shown with music at the beginning of Chapter XIII.

'Twas sung by the poets, foreseen in the Spirit,
A time of refreshing is near;
When creeds and divisions would fall to demerit,
And saints in sweet union appear.

=Chorus=

Oh, glory to Jesus! we hail the bright day,
And high on our banner salvation display,
The mists of confusion are passing away.

We stand in the glory that Jesus has given,
The moon as the dayspring doth shine;
The light of the sun is now equal to seven,
So bright is the glory divine.

Now filled with the Spirit, and clad in the armor
Of light and omnipotent truth,
We'll testify ever and Jesus we'll honor,
And stand from sin Babel aloof.

The prophet's keen vision, transpiercing the ages,
Beheld us to Zion return;
We'll sing of our freedom, though Babylon rages,
We'll shout as her city doth burn.

The fig-tree is budding, the "evening" is shining,
We welcome the wonderful light!
We look for the Savior, for time is declining,
Eternity's looming in sight.

As he saw the church of God emerge out of confusion into the brightness which should characterize the evening of time, he wrote the following, which is given with music at the beginning of Chapter I.

Brighter days are sweetly dawning,
Oh the glory looms in sight!
For the cloudy day is waning,
And the evening shall be light.

Misty fogs, so long concealing
All the hills of mingled night,
Vanish, all their sin revealing,
For the evening shall be light.

Lo, the ransomed are returning,
Robed in shining crystal white,
Leaping, shouting, home to Zion,
Happy in the evening light.

Free from Babel, in the Spirit,
Free to worship God aright,
Joy and gladness we're receiving,
Oh, how sweet this evening light!

Halleluiah! saints are singing,
Vict'ry in Jehovah's might;
Glory, glory, keep it ringing,
We are saved in evening light.

Another hymn of the return, and also embodying Sister Fisher's vision of the stone tower, was the following:

We are coming, halleluiah! we are coming home to God;
Jesus only we're beholding, who has washed us in his blood:
We are marching back to Salem at the trumpet's joyful sound,
And we're building God's own temple on it's ancient holy ground.

=Chorus=

We are coming, Oh, we're coming, with the glory in the soul!
Grace we're shouting as we're bringing Christ, the headstone we extol;
Though as captives long we've suffered, we do feel the royal blood,
And we're rising to our freedom in the fulness of our God.

While we're working, we are fighting all the mighty foes around;
Tho' in wrath they do oppose us we will not desert the ground.
O my God, do thou remember all those wicked plotting crews,
Hear them saying in derision, "Now what do these feeble Jews?"

Thou art coming, mighty Jesus, in the power of thy grace;
Now our souls break forth in singing at the smiling of thy face:
Fear of sect, a mount of terror, thou hast made an open plain,
And the misty fogs of error all have vanished in thy name.

Our foundation strong is Jesus, he the topmost, crowning stone;
Halleluiah! we adore him, king upon his living throne:
And his crimson glory streaming through each crystal stone below
Tints the whole ecstatic temple with the beauty of its glow.

Oh, the glory of this temple far exceeds the former one!
All its stones are bound together in Love's dear eternal Son:
In this building, what a wonder! there's a dwelling-place for me;
Yes, thy beauty, O my Savior! I shall here forever see.

Many of his hymns, as is usually the case with hymn-writers, were prompted by some particular occasion or suggestion. Thus in connection with the terrific furnace trials at Bucyrus, Ohio, in 1883, he wrote:

Why should a mortal man complain
At his trials in this wicked world?
Nay, let us thank God's holy name
For all his love o'er us unfurled.

=Chorus=

O Jesus, bear our souls above
Each wave of trouble that we meet!
Then in the furnace of thy love
We'll sing thy praise with joy complete.

Oh, why should any one oppressed
Forget the promise of our God!
To thee each providence is blessed
If in love thou bear the chastening rod.

Oh, who would cast away the gold
We have gathered in the furnace flame!
And who would wish again the dross
Here purged in our Redeemer's name?

Once when a new printing-press was installed in the Office (he always rejoiced when there was an increase of printing equipment), he wrote the following in anticipation of the Trumpet's being raised to louder blasts. See the music at the beginning of Chapter XIV.

Onward moves the great eternal
In the order of his plan;
Louder, nearer rolls the thunder
Of his awful word to man.

Since by sin this earth was blighted
God has whispered of his love.
Dreams and visions by his prophets
Breathed of mercy from above.

Louder speaks his love in Jesus,
Heaven sweetly chants his fame;
Earth receives its glorious Savior,
Halleluiah to his name!

Yet the world is wrapped in slumber;
Louder raise the Trumpet's blast;
Oh, in mercy let it thunder,
Ere the day of mercy's past!

In the cages of deception
Souls are pining to be free;
Quickly sound the proclamation
Of the glorious jubilee.

The hymn, Perishing Souls at Stake, was one of the early productions. We quote this hymn and its history as it appeared in the Trumpet of Dec. 15, 1885. The music will be found at the head of Chapter XVI.

Perishing souls at stake today!
Says the banner of Christ unfurled;
Pleading in love for help to save
Blood-bought sinners o'er all the world.

Perishing souls at stake we see,
Yet the Savior has died for all;
Go and invite them earnestly,
Some will surely obey the call.

Perishing souls at stake today,
There's a famine in all the land;
Many are dying for the bread
Freely given by Jesus' hand.

Perishing souls at stake, go tell
What the Savior has done for you,
How he redeemed your soul from hell,
And is able to save them, too.

Perishing souls at stake we know,
Oh, do pity the sinner's fate!
Brother and sister, will you go,
Give them warning before too late.

Perishing souls at stake today,
Can you tarry for earthly dross?
Fly to the rescue, don't delay,
Bring the needy to Jesus' cross.

The foregoing song was suggested to our mind by a solemn vision
given to Bro. C. Ogan, of Latty, Ohio, on the night previous to
September 19. He saw Christ displaying a banner upon which was
written these words: "Perishing Souls at Stake." That day we had
a very solemn meeting at Jerry City, Ohio. The Spirit of God was
present, making imperative calls for workers in the vineyard. Our
soul was burdened with an awful sense of perishing souls at stake.
All hearts were melted before the Lord. A number acknowledged the
solemn commission. Dear Brother Ogan was one of them, relating this
solemn and beautiful vision.

We pray that all who that day confessed the call of God may go
forward, lest that "woe is me" be upon them, and perishing souls be
lost for whom the blessed Savior died. In about all the meetings
this fall the same great burden has come upon our soul for men
and women of God to go forth and hold up the light of his saving
truth. O ye that have the real fire of God in your souls, can you
tarry at home to watch a few earthly effects, when there is such
a sore famine in all the land! And you who have found the true
salvation of Christ Jesus are the only ones that can bring the
living bread to others. College bread will not do. 'Dumb dogs can
not bark'; Babylon priests are full of darkness, and souls are
dying all around. Oh! if you have any gratitude in your hearts for
what Christ has done for you, go and tell others, and some will
surely receive the joyful tidings. Oh, how sad this world with no
gospel but the wretched stuff given by Babylon priests! And most
everywhere there are at least one or two honest souls who long for
the light. Can you stay at home for the sordid dust of earth and
let them perish? Oh, fly to the rescue, don't delay; bring the
needy to Jesus Christ!

After a few years both Fisher and Jeffrey dropped out of the ranks and ceased to contribute their melodies to Brother Warner's hymns. In their place God provided Brother B. E. Warren. No sooner did this young brother become a part of Brother Warner's company than he began to display a marvelous gift for writing melodies. In the years that followed he filled a large place as a writer of music, and he also learned to write the words as well.

When the company were on their Western trip in the autumn of 1887, Brother Warner wrote the hymn Sowing the Seed, in anticipation of their having to brave the chilling blasts of the winter which was before them.

Unheeding winter's cruel blast,
We venture heaven's seed to cast;
Both late and early plant the truth
In aged hearts and tender youth.

Shall we be found with only leaves
When Jesus comes to gather sheaves?
Nay, sowing daily o'er the land,
We'll come with joyful sheaves in hand.

Nor is the precious labor hard,
Its glory is its own reward;
We plant in hearts of grim despair
A life that blooms as Eden fair.

Oh, were this life the utmost span,
The closing destiny of man.
No toil could half so blessed prove
As sowing seeds of peace and love.

But heaven's bright eternal years
Have bottled up our sowing tears;
There we shall greet in holy bliss
The souls we turned to righteousness.

Then sow the seed in every field,
And grace will bring the golden yield;
We soon shall sing the joyful song,
And shout the blessed harvest-home.

The song Who Will Suffer With Jesus? had its origin while the company were in the South in the winter of 1890-91. It was written at the time a mob assaulted the house in which Brother Warner was preaching and a sharp, flying missile struck him on the side of the face, causing it to bleed.

Who will suffer with the Savior,
Take the little that remains
Of the cup of tribulation
Jesus drank in dying pains?

Who will offer soul and body
On the altar of our God;
Leaving self and worldly mammon,
Take the path that Jesus trod?

Who will suffer for the gospel,
Follow Christ without the gate;
Take the martyrs for example,
With them glory at the stake?

Oh, for consecrated service
'Mid the din of Babel strife!
Who will dare the truth to herald
At the peril of his life?

Soon the conflict will be over,
Crowns await the firm and pure;
Forward, brethren, work and suffer,
Faithful to the end endure.

Lord, we fellowship thy passion,
Gladly suffer shame and loss;
With thy blessing pain is pleasure,
We will glory in thy cross.

One of the prominent features of the reformation was the sweet, heavenly singing of the saints. Wherever Brother Warner's company went the people were attracted by the singing. They were not what the world would call "trained singers"; they were not even adept at reading music. But God blessed the singing, so that the songs, sung in the element of the Spirit, were simply heavenly. At the time the company held the first meeting at Walkerton, Ind. a theatrical troupe came to the town. So many people had flocked to Brother Warner's meetings that the house was packed and there were not many left to attend the theatrical concert. The troupe, not having a sufficient audience, came to the place of meeting and gave some instrumental music just outside in order to attract the people. Of course it interfered with the preaching. Brother Warner said, "Sing a song." Sister Nannie Kigar, who was the soprano of the company and always ready with a suitable selection, started a song. The people decided to remain. Many and powerful were the effects of these heaven-inspired songs.

Mention has been made already of the instance where the cattle listened and gazed with wonder when Brother Warner's company were singing at a place where they had stopped in the edge of the woods for dinner. Brother Warren says that once when they were traveling on the road and singing they were passing a field where there were cattle, horses, and other live stock, and that all of these followed along inside the fence until they reached the corner of the field, seeming to be attracted by the wonderful charm of the singing.

At the time the company visited St. James, Mo., on the second Western tour, Brother Warner wrote the hymn Sing it Again, at a place where they were stopping in the country. Brother Warren then composed the music, and they began singing it. When the time came for them to be taken to the train to leave that part of the country, it was decided that they should be conveyed to Jefferson City in order to afford a little country ride for a change. They camped out the first night, and reached Jefferson City the second day, early in the afternoon. They decided to visit the State prison, and as the weather was warm they left their wraps in the baggage-room of the railroad-station until they should return. When they came back the baggage-room was locked, and the temperature was falling and becoming just a little chilly. Everything was quiet around; not a sound could be heard except the clicking of the telegraph instrument in the office. The train they were to take would not be due until in the night, and as the waiting-room was open they gathered a little fuel and built a fire. When this was done Brother Warner gave a little jump (he always seemed happy enough to jump at any time) and said, "Let us have a song." Naturally enough they sang the new song, Sing it Again. Soon the door opened and in came the operator, and then shortly, almost before they were aware of it, a number of others had gathered and were listening intently. When the song was ended, the operator said, "This reminds me of my childhood days; won't you sing that song again?" They sang it again, and then Brother Warner, as his manner frequently was, took out his Bible and said, "Perhaps you would not object to a little of the Word of God." The operator had to attend to his office duties, but the others listened. Next testimonies were proposed. And so they had a precious little meeting in the waiting-room of the railroad-station, and the new song had already begun to be useful. We here reproduce the words. The music is given at the head of Chapter XVII.

Let us sing the name of Jesus, oh, that name we love so dear!
Sweetest anthem earth or heaven ever breathed on mortal ear;
In that name we have salvation, oh, how precious is the flow!
Sing, oh, sing the name of Jesus, for it makes us white as snow!

Sing the lovely name of Jesus, oh, the precious Lamb of God!
Lo, he died our souls to ransom, he redeemed us by his blood:
Let the joyful overflowing of our hearts so full of love
Sound aloud the name of Jesus with the mighty host above.

Sing, oh, sing the name of Jesus, he is worthy, he alone,
Glory, honor, and salvation chant with angels round the throne;
Sing it softly in the Spirit, sing it loud as thunders roll,
Sing with rapture, halleluiah, to the Lamb that saved my soul.

Yes, we'll sing the name of Jesus, 'tis the only name that's giv'n
That can save a guilty sinner, and no other under heav'n.
Oh, we love the name of Jesus, his salvation we adore!
Blessed be the name of Jesus, we will sing it more and more.

We will sing the name of Jesus all along the path of life,
We will sing it, halleluiah, mid the battle and the strife;
We will sing it all together when we meet upon that shore,
Oh, we'll sing the name of Jesus, blessed name forevermore!

I shall never forget the time when Brother Warner and his company first came to my father's home in northwestern Illinois. I have always considered it the brightest event in my life's career. Today, as memory carries me back to that time, and I imagine myself in that same situation, I have indescribable feelings. They arrived on a Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1888. My father and I had gone to engage a schoolhouse for the meetings when the company arrived. My sister had been converted the previous year; but during her attendance at school through the winter she had become somewhat cold spiritually and so had no particular pleasure in anticipating the coming of "Warner's band," as she had heard them called. When the company arrived in the house, wearied with much travel, they seemed particularly to enjoy the sense of home, and they sang the hymn,

Home, home, brightest and fairest,
Hope, hope, sweetest and best.

My sister simply melted. That song introduction was enough. Then they had prayer, and their hearts welled up in thankfulness to God for his blessings and care over them. If there ever were men who could pray, Brother Warner was one of them.

After my father and I returned home, my sister and mother wanted me to hear the company sing, and of course another song was requested. They sang this time, The All-cleansing Fountain, and it seemed to be the sweetest singing I had ever heard. During their stay in our home Brother Warren did some composing at the organ, and this seemed wonderful to me. I had never seen such people, whose countenances were aglow with the victory of salvation and who were so filled with praise and song.

While the company were at our home we decided to give them a little outing by taking them across the Mississippi to the city of Clinton, Iowa, then remarkable for its lumber trade, and for having eight large sawmills, one of them the largest sawmill in the world. As we were driving along the road and singing The All-cleansing Fountain, a neighbor who was working in a field near by but who on account of an intervening ridge could not see us, heard the song. Not knowing from whence the sound came he concluded it was angel music, and when he went to his house he declared to his wife that he had heard the angels sing.

A large class of songs that were used were such as expressed victory and worship. Another large class were those of invitation and warning to sinners. In the later books, about all topics that are useful in Christian work were represented.

Songs of Victory was the name of the first book published. It was issued in 1885. This was followed in 1888 by Anthems from the Throne. The third book was Echoes from Glory, published in 1893. Following these a new book of songs has been issued about every four to six years.

XVIII

POETIC INSPIRATIONS

To reflect on Brother Warner's career is to marvel at the accomplishment that was crowded into a few short years. He was active in several callings at one time. As a minister with the heavy burden of the gospel upon him he labored hard, preaching often and being everywhere in demand. On occasions he preached for three and even four hours in one discourse, the audience as well as the preacher forgetful of the passing time. Though in physical endurance he was weak, yet there were perhaps few speakers who could wear so well in the labor of the pulpit. His private work of instructing seekers, and his ministrations for the sick, requiring the exercise of prayer and faith, absorbed his strength and occupied much time. As editor of the paper, to which he contributed articles, many of them doctrinal and requiring study, and for which he had to edit articles written by others, it was necessary that he spend much time with the pen. His correspondence also was considerable, and as stenographers were not so available then as now he had to do his writing with his own hand. Where would he get time for study and prayer, and for writing hymns or poetry? And yet he accomplished all of these.

In the latter years of his life he apparently was declining to some extent in ministerial vigor; but as a writer his productions seemed only to grow richer with his years. Had his life been prolonged to the full period of what is commonly expected of man, he would have given to the world some of the finest poetical productions. His poems are not at all inferior, though written during a strenuous career.

In 1890, he collected and published his poems in a book entitled Poems of Grace and Truth. It contained 343 pages. With the exception of a small book entitled Bible Readings, and the limp-cover binding of a song-book, this book of poems was the first cloth-bound book ever made at the Gospel Trumpet publishing office. The press-work is imperfect owing to the poor stereotyped plates from which it was printed. A number of beautiful poems were written since the publication of this book and therefore were not included in it.

His longest poem was his Meditations on the Prairie. It occupies eighty-four pages of the book mentioned and is written in ten-syllable iambic verse. It touchingly describes with beautiful imagery the author's acquaintance with and his subsequent marriage to Sarah A. Keller, and the circumstances that led to her deception and separation from him. His own description of its origin, as given in the preface to the poem, is as follows:

In the summer of 1873, the author took a mission-field in
Nebraska, much of which had just been settled the previous year.
My companion had died one year previously. Just before going West
a correspondence was arranged with Sister Sarah A. Keller, which
soon kindled into a glowing flame of love. A year later I returned
and we were happily joined in marriage. With her precious company
I came again to this blooming plain, where one year was sweetened
with the most transporting conjugal bliss. In 1875 we returned to
Ohio, where life and labors flowed on in uninterrupted happiness,
until in 1884 the dear object of our love was deceived by the wily
foe and torn from our soul, a crisis that threatened our frail
life, and which we survived only by the grace of God.

In the fall of 1887, while on an extensive Western tour, we came
into a new part of the great prairie, which strikingly reminded us
of our travels on the new plains twelve and thirteen years before.
There the Spirit touched our mind with vivid recollections of that
cherished one, who made for us this prairie a blissful Eden. An
inspired imagination also portrayed what dire wreck of our own life
might have ensued from the crisis of broken love had not the grace
of God averted the sad issue. This cast us on the sod beneath
a load of gratitude, where the poem was inspired as our heart's
humble tribute for Heaven's pity and sustaining arm.

A quotation from this poem appears in Chapter XV of this book.

Brother Warner was a great admirer of nature as the handiwork of God, and several of his poems are on nature subjects. What we give here are in most cases but selections from the poems named, the omissions being indicated by stars.

AUTUMN

Gone is the spring with all its flowers,
And gone the summer's verdant show;
Now strewn beneath the autumn bowers,
The yellow leaves await the snow.

Behold, this earth so cold and gray
An emblem of our life appears;
Its blooming robes sink to decay,
To rise again in round of years.

Earth cheers its winter sleep with dreams
Of springtime's warmth and gentle rain,
When she shall wake to murmuring streams
And songs of merry birds again.

So we come forth like springtime flowers,
Soon into manhood's summer go,
Then, like the leaves of autumn bowers,
Lie down beneath the winter's snow.

And there our bodies slumb'ring wait
Till time's short winter day has fled,
And Christ, our Lord and Advocate,
Shall come again to wake the dead.

Then winter's storm and summer's heat
Shall end in everlasting spring,
And all immortal we shall meet,
And round the throne of glory sing.

NEW YEAR'S GREETING

January 1, 1890

Another year has come and gone
So swiftly flows unceasing time.
Forever on and on and on,
With sorrow's groan and merry chime.
Commingled in its surging tide,
Time bears along upon its flood
Poor human wrecks by sin destroyed;
Yet o'er its stream, the hand of God
Still bends his bow of hope divine;
Its hues of love in beauty shine.

Another year of hope and fear
Has swept around its dial-plate,
And with it thousands disappear
To higher bliss or awful fate.
God grant to us who yet survive
A heart of fervent gratitude,
And grace that we may wholly live
To glorify the Source of good;
Then, should this be our final year,
We'll sink to rest without a fear.

Another year hath brought its store
In rich profusion at our feet,
That we should, heart and soul, adore
Our Maker's love so broad and deep.
And have you cast your bread upon
The waters of the passing year,
In hope that what your hands have done
Will in much future good appear?
Then as thy faith so shall it be;
In coming days thine eyes shall see.

* * * * *

The poem To the Alien, is addressed to his wife, Sarah, who, early in the year 1884, through the influence of a spiritual deceiver, as already stated, left her husband.

TO THE ALIEN

Three years have fled since billows wild
Wrecked our domestic bark,
And chilled your love for husband, child,
Mid waters cold and dark.

"How wonderful the mystery,"
Astonished men exclaim,
"That hearts so knit in unity
Could ever part in twain!"

* * * * *

We suffered some adversities,
A portion all must find,
When compassed round by devotees
Whose creeds we'd left behind.

When pressing to the harvest-field
Of everlasting truth,
And just before the golden yield,
Alas! you turned aloof.

Oh, how I wish that you could share
In these ecstatic days,
Enjoy the light of God so pure,
And help to sing his praise!

My soul had longed for more of God,
More glory in the cross;
But never dreamed that it must come
Through such a bitter loss.

I can not chide his providence,
But count it all the best;
For in each storm of violence
I sink to sweeter rest.

* * * * *

'Twas not a rival filled thine eyes
With colored fancies rare;
But Satan came in deep disguise,
And wrought the dread affair.

* * * * *

We still are joined in Eden's bond
Of matrimony true;
While life endures, yet undissolved
It binds my heart to you.

No court of man nor Satan's power
Can disannul the tie;
Though spirits rent, in evil hour,
"One flesh" are you and I.

No face so fair, no heart so warm,
Upon this verdant sod,
Shall alienate with rival charm
The wife received of God.

So I will walk with God alone,
And bless his holy name,
Till he shall bring the alien home
To dwell in love again.

In vision of the night I saw--
And woke to joyful praise--
True nature reimprint her law
That ruled thy former days.

From nature's pure affections then
Grace led to love divine;
Then heaven's bliss alone can bound
Our mutual joy sublime.

God grant that this may real prove
Through coming years of time,
And in his shining courts above,
An endless crown be thine.

The hand of God alone can take
The broken chords of love
And knit them in a union sweet
As love's pure reign above.

Here I will close my present rhyme;
But ever pray for you,
That God may give you back again
The heart of woman true.

Then touched by sweet seraphic strains,
With all the heavenly throng,
I'll shout aloud my Savior's praise,
And sing another song.

TO MY DEAR SIDNEY

The heart that feels a father's love
And swells with love's return,
Will kindly bear this overflow
Toward my only son.

Yes, Sidney's love so blent with mine,
A poem shall employ--
A token left to coming time
That father loved his boy.

One gentle vine--thy tendrils sweet
Around my soul entwine;
A comfort left in sorrows deep,
One heart to beat with mine.

Thy life has dawned in peril's day.
Mid wars that heaven shake;
Thy summers five, eventful, they
Like surges o'er thee break.

Thy little soul has felt the shock
Of burning Babel's fall,
When hell recoiled in fury black
And stood in dread appal.

But wreaking out his vengeance now,
Like ocean's terror dark,
Hell's monster came athwart the bow
Of our domestic bark.

Thy guardian angel wept to see
This brunt of fury sweep
The girdings of maternity
From underneath thy feet.

But pity still her garland weaves
Around thy gentle brow,
And angels on thee softly breathe
Their benedictions now.

They soothe and bless thy manly heart,
And wipe away thy tears;
So tempered to thy bitter lot,
The bitter sweet appears.

An exile now is each to each,
As banished far at sea;
A martyr on his island beach,
I daily think of thee.

And stronger love has seldom spanned
The mocking billows wild,
Than are the chords that ever bind
To my beloved child.

Though sundered not by angry main,
Compelled from thine embrace,
We flee abroad in Jesus' name
To publish Heaven's grace.

Thy little heart can not divine
Why Papa stays away,
But coming years will tell, if thine,
The great necessity.

When sickness crushed thy little form,
I knew my boy was ill;
I heard thee in my visions call,
But duty kept me still.

A trial deep, to feel thy pain,
And yet debarred from thee,
To show that sinners lost are in
A greater misery.

Oh, may this lesson speak to thee
When Father's work is done!
And highest may thy glory be,
A soul for God is won.

And now, my son, attentive hear
My benediction-prayer,
And ever tune thy heart and ear
To heaven's music rare;

For ere the light of day had shone
In thy unfolding eyes,
We gave thee up to God alone,
A living sacrifice;

And oft repeated when a babe,
To God our child was given;
And Jesus heard the vow we made,
And wrote it down in heaven.

So, like a little Samuel, you
Must answer, "Here am I";
Give all your heart to Jesus, too,
For him to live and die.

Like Samuel, serve the living God,
His temple be thy home;
In love obey his holy Word,
Thy gentle heart his throne.

The Lord is good, my darling boy;
He made thy body well,
And he will bless thee evermore,
If in his love you dwell.

A new edition may you be
Of Father's love and zeal,
But yet enlarged so wondrously
That earth thy tread may feel.

The poem Throwing Ink at the Devil, refers to the printing and publishing of the Gospel Trumpet. The place "where two lightning tracks lie crossing" is Grand Junction, Mich., where the publishing office was then located.

At Wartburg Castle sat a son of thunder
Dealing heaven's dynamite,
When, lo! before him 'peared an apparition,
Fury-threatening demon sight.

The piercing words of truth, so long besmothered
Flashed the burning wrath upon
The devil's patent monk and pope religion,
Which confronts the dread reform.

* * * * *

Before the dauntless, lion-hearted Luther
Forth the hellish monster stood,
Drawn from his prison by the scattering theses
'Gainst the Romish viper brood.

He lifted up his eyebrows knit with thunder,
To the hellish specter said,
With stern address, "Du bist der wahre Teufel!"--
Hurls an inkstand at his head.

The doctor's splattering missile, proving potent,
Drove old Satan from his door;
But ink he threw on paper at the devil
Battered down his kingdom more.

* * * * *

Not now, as did the sturdy Wittenberger
Fling an inkstand at the foe,
But by the mighty force of steam, much faster
We the battle-ink can throw.

Just at a point where lightning tracks lie crossing,
Northward, southward, east, and west,
The Lord has planted his revolving cannon,
Firing ink at Satan's crest.

* * * * *

Not only toward the main forewinds of heaven
Sin-consuming ink is shot,
But right and left in force, 'tis outward given,
Striking sin in every spot.

When round "Mansoul" Immanuel plants his army,
To retake the famous town,
On "eye-gate" hill he plants this mighty engine,
Till surrendered to his crown.

If chance a pilgrim's shield of faith is drooping,
And his heart with fear oppressed,
Then comes the ink-winged angel, trumpet sounding,
And his soul anew is blessed.

TRUTH

"And what is truth?" asked Pilate, sober.
Immersed in deep perplexity,
And trembled while in judgment over
The One his final judge must be.
He asked, but waited not the answer;
For in his majesty there stood
The Truth himself at his tribunal--
Yea, the incarnate Truth of God.

Shine on with all thy constellation,
The precious attributes of God,
Love, mercy, justice, and compassion;
For second in thy magnitude
Thou only art in love's effulgence.
"I am the truth." and "God is love";
From both in one omnific fulness
Proceed the streams of truth above.

High honored and from everlasting
Thou art, O Truth, a pillar strong,
Upholding justice, faith, and virtue.
Before the stars together sang
Our ill-doomed planet's new creation,
Thy hand didst hold, on heaven's throne,
The balance weighing every nation,
Upon the worlds that round thee shone.

Thou art the firm and deep foundation
Of hope and universal good,
And on thy broad eternal bosom
Is based the awful throne of God.
The myriad stars that gem the ocean
Of boundless space, at thy command
Pursue their even-tenored motion,
And are supported by thy hand.

* * * * *

AUTUMN LEAVES

A mournful sermon greets my ear!
The pensive season of the year
Now preaches in a muffled tone,
From nature's fast-decaying throne.
Come to the woodland's cold retreat;
The leaves that rustle at thy feet,
With all that linger o'er thy head--
Commingling, yellow, green, and red--
And all that, trembling, leave their place
And softly greet their mother's face,
As sailing from their lofty top
They in your presence mournful drop,
Remind the thoughtful passer-by,
Thy falling autumn, too, is nigh.

Life has its gay and happy spring,
When birds of every feather sing;
Its warm and verdant summer, brief,
Which hastens to the yellow leaf,
Soon winter's icy hand will lie
Upon our cold and lifeless clay.
But oh! our soul--where will it be
Throughout the long eternity?
How can this question pass your mind
As falling leaves drift in the wind?

* * * * *

Ah! there's a sweet and sacred spell
That draws me to the shady dell;
Here could my soul with God remain
In meditation's holy frame.
Ho! all ye men that know not God,
Come seek him in the shady wood;
And, all ye saints of feeble love,
When will ye come and wisely prove
The blessedness that crowns the hour
That's spent with God in leafy bower?
If only heard your prayers ye say,
Then unto God ye never pray;
For did ye truly seek his face
And pray to win his saving grace
You'd pray when mortals are not near,
Right in your heavenly Father's ear.
In public, too; yea, everywhere,
But most of all with secret prayer;
Where only silent leaves applaud,
There would ye bow and worship God.

* * * * *

Then in the hush of solitude
Come listen to the voice of God;
Come oft, and he shall teach thine ear
His gentle words of love to hear.

There is no place on earth so sweet
As forest shades, where streamlets meet
And sing aloud their rocky ways,
With birds, and universal praise.
Do not the lover and his maid,
Delighted, walk the balmy shade,
And there unlock, with words so blest,
The pent-up love within their breast?
The crazy-quilt spread on the ground,
Of beauty-tinted leaves around,
Each bright sunbeam and fragrant flower,
And nature's music in the bower--
But, most of all, the cooing dove--
Lend inspiration to their love.
And does not nature's solitude
Inspire a soul to worship God?
Behold, he framed her majesty,
Cast up her hills, and carved the way
For babbling brooks that flow between
And tread the winding valley's green.
The many lovely trees that spread
Their sheltering wings above our head,
Rose up by his supreme behest,
With all their nuts and fruitage blest,
He taught the vine their trunks to climb,
Like cords of love their boughs entwine.

* * * * *

Hear thou, O man, our autumn chant
While sunbeams coldly o'er us slant,
And mournfully we fall so low
To don our winding sheet of snow,
There doomed in silence to decay.
So, too, thou, man, must pass away;
Thy springs of love shall lower run
Until thy life's last setting sun;
Then in thy grave-suit, coldly wound,
Like us return to mother ground.

But we are not without a seed,
From which anew there may proceed
Our kind to grow and multiply,
As round and round the seasons fly.
So, man, within thy mortal breast
There is a soul, immortal quest,
That shall reanimate thy clay,
And both, immortal, live for aye.
Thou shalt from winter's sleep arise,
And meet thy Savior in the skies.
With this blest hope so sure and bright
All seasons beam with golden light,
In winter's storm and summer's heat
The pure in heart have joys complete;
And when the close of life appears,
Their pleasures ripen with his years--
Unlike the sinner, dark and cold
Who graceless, godless, hopeless, old,
Sits lowly down in autumn's vale,
His life all fruitless to bewail.
Each falling leaf his conscience stings
And thoughts of future judgment brings;
Yea, warns him that the time is nigh
When he in black despair must die.
Unlike the life in folly spent,
And now with sinful years is bent
Low at the grave with dismal moan;
Nay, "for the righteous light is sown,"
Yea, light that brightens in the vale
Of falling leaves, where he can hail
The glories of another world;
Where mortal shafts are never hurled,
Nor cruel frosts can ever sting.
There life begins another spring
To flourish in eternal green,
In heaven's high celestial scene.

BEAUTIFUL SPRING

Ah, gentle spring, thy balmy breeze,
New chanting 'mid the budding trees,
A glorious resurrection sings!
And on thy soft, ethereal wings
Sweet nectar from ten thousand flowers,
That bloom in nature's happy bowers
Thou dost as holy incense bring
To Him who sheds the beams of spring.

Far in the South thy bloom appeared,
And all our journey northward cheered;
A thousand miles in sweet embrace,
We northward held an even race;
Or if by starts we did outrun
Thy even tenor from the sun,
Ere long we blessed thy coming tread
And quaffed the oders thou didst spread.

O brightest, sweetest of the year!
When all is vocal with thy cheer,
Thy lily-cups and roses red
With us some tear-drops also shed.
The cherry-trees, in shrouds of white,
Bring back to mind a mournful sight--
A coffined brother 'neath the bloom,
Just ere they bore him to the tomb.

Ah, yes, thou sweet, beguiling spring,
Of thee, my inmost heart would sing.
"The time of love," all bards agree
To sing in merry notes to thee.
Yea, such thou art, and happy they
Who walk in love's delightful day
Along the path thy flakes hath strewn,
And know indeed her constant boon.

But what of him who walks alone,
With past love fled and turned to stone?
Shall not the springtide music's roll
Mock withered joys and sting the soul?
Not in the heart embalmed in love
Transported from the worlds above,
Nor seasons, no, nor else can bring
Heartaches where only God is king.

That soul an endless spring enjoys
Where life the will of God employs.
He 'mid the fields of bliss may tread,
And feast on joys that long have fled,
By sacred memories' glowing trace
More than the heart untouched by grace,
Can drink from full fruition's stream,
Or paint in fancy's wildest dream.

O God! thou art the life of spring,
The source of all the seasons bring,
The soul of all the joys we know,
The fountain whence our pleasures flow.
While nature wakes from winter's sleep,
And gentle clouds effusive weep,
We join creation's grateful lays,
And celebrate our Maker's praise.

The deaths of individuals furnished inspiration for many a verse from Brother Warner's pen. Celia Kilpatrick Byrum was one of the early workers in the Gospel Trumpet Office, when the paper was published at Grand Junction, Mich. Her death occurred on the 11th of December, 1888.

And is she gone--dear Celia gone?
Such news would tax credulity
Did not the Spirit's previous tone
Toll in our bosom mournfully
The thought, "She's left this mortal clime,
And we shall see her face no more
Until we pass the bounds of time
And meet upon celestial shore."

'Twas in our heart to tune our lyre
To sing thy cheerful wedding-day;
But debts are made by fond desire,
More than our fleeting time can pay.
So now we sing our mournful lay--
Another epoch followed soon
To thy poor soul, a brighter day
Than that when blessed beside thy groom.

The Author of these feeling hearts
Chides not affection's flowing tears;
But with them soothing balm imparts,
And in his arms of love he bears
Poor nature's heavy burden up:
So when bereavements press our mind,
Grace drops such sweetness in the cup
That even then we comfort find.

But is she gone whose heart e'er burned
With such devoted, fervent zeal?
To bless mankind her spirit yearned,
Wished every heart God's love might seal.
She thought no sacrifice too dear,
No painful toil and care too great,
That all this world the truth might hear
And gain redemption's blissful state.

O sister, while thy eyes beheld
Whate'er thy willing hands could do,
No needed rest thy footsteps held,
No moderation couldst thou know;
Regarding not thy slender frame--
To pious toil so passionate--
Till thy enfeebled limbs refrained
To execute thy heart's mandate.

* * * * *

When sickness had already cast
Its waning paleness on thy cheek,
God folded thee within the breast
Of love, connubial, warm and deep.
Thank heav'n for this provision kind,
To bless, support, and comfort thee;
On those strong arms thy life declined
Till from thy suffering body free.

* * * * *