hymn, but could only
say, "I'll praise--I'll praise--," and with the praise of his Maker on
his lips, he went home to God. John Wesley survived his brother three
years, entering his eternal rest on March 2, 1791. The text of his last
sermon was, "Seek ye the Lord while He may be found."

Whether Charles Wesley or Isaac Watts should be accorded first place
among English hymnists has been a subject of much dispute. The fact is
that each occupies a unique position, and the one complements the other.
While Watts dwells on the awful majesty and glory of God in sublime
phrases, Wesley touches the very hem of Christ's garment in loving
adoration and praise. Dr. Breed compares the two in the following
striking manner:

"Watts is more reverential; Wesley more loving. Watts is stronger; Wesley
sweeter. Watts appeals profoundly to the intellect; Wesley takes hold of
the heart. Watts will continue to sing for the Pauls and Peters of the
Church; Wesley for the Thomases and the Johns. Where both are so great it
would be idle to attempt to settle their priority. Let us only be
grateful that God in His gracious providence has given both to the Church
to voice the praises of various classes."

Henry Ward Beecher uttered one of the most beautiful of all tributes to
"Jesus, Lover of my soul" when he said: "I would rather have written that
hymn of Wesley's than to have the fame of all the kings that ever sat on
the earth. It is more glorious. It has more power in it. I would rather
be the author of that hymn than to hold the wealth of the richest man in
New York. He will die. He _is_ dead, and does not know it.... But that
hymn will go singing until the last trump brings forth the angel band;
and then, I think, it will mount up on some lip to the very presence of
God."

George Duffield, author of "Stand up, stand up for Jesus," called
Wesley's lyric "the hymn of the ages."

No one will ever know how much help and consolation it has brought to
souls in affliction. Allan Sutherland tells of the following pathetic
incident:

"On an intensely warm day, as I stood on the corner of a sun-baked street
in Philadelphia, waiting for a car to take me to the cool retreats of
Fairmount Park, I heard a low, quavering voice singing, with
inexpressible sweetness, 'Jesus, Lover of my soul.' Looking up to an open
window whence the sound came, I saw on the sill a half-withered plant--a
pathetic oasis of green in a desert of brick and mortar--and resti