aising
Heart and voice in harmony;
The Creator King still praising
Whom in beauty there they see.

Sweetest strains from soft harps stealing,
Trumpets' notes of triumph pealing,
Radiant wings and white stoles gleaming
Up the steps of glory streaming;
Where the heavenly bells are ringing;
"Holy! holy! holy!" singing
To the mighty Trinity!
"Holy! holy! holy!" crying,
For all earthly care and sighing
In that city cease to be!

These lines are not in the hymnals of today--and whether they ever found
their way into choral use in ancient times we are not told. Worse poetry
has been sung--and more un-hymnlike. Some future composer will make a
tune to the words of a Christian who stood almost in sight of his
hundredth year--and of the eternal home he writes about.

MARTIN LUTHER.

"_Ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott._"

Of Martin Luther Coleridge said, "He did as much for the Reformation by
his hymns as he did by his translation of the Bible." The remark is so
true that it has become a commonplace.

The above line--which may be seen inscribed on Luther's tomb at
Wittenberg--is the opening sentence and key-note of the Reformer's
grandest hymn. The forty-sixth Psalm inspired it, and it is in harmony
with sublime historical periods from its very nature, boldness, and
sublimity. It was written, according to Welles, in the memorable year
when the evangelical princes delivered their protest at the Diet of
Spires, from which the word and the meaning of the word "Protestant" is
derived. "Luther used often to sing it in 1530, while the Diet of
Augsburg was sitting. It soon became the favorite psalm with the people.
It was one of the watchwords of the Reformation, cheering armies to
conflict, and sustaining believers in the hours of fiery trial."

"After Luther's death, Melancthon, his affectionate coadjutor, being one
day at Weimar with his banished friends, Jonas and Creuziger, heard a
little maid singing this psalm in the street, and said, 'Sing on, my
little girl, you little know whom you comfort:'"

A mighty fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing;
Our helper He, amid the flood
Of mortal ills prevailing.
For still our ancient foe
Doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great,
And, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.

* * * * *

The Prince of Darkness g