With considerable indebtedness to Faith Cook’s book, Our Hymn Writers and their Hymns.

Abide With Me is one of the best-loved songs of comfort and encouragement in the hymnbooks of the Christian church. Its words of hope, reminding the believer of God’s constant presence, have strengthened many a Christian in the deepest trials of life. Little wonder: it was written by a man who knew he was dying, and who received comfort from the Scriptures in his own hour of need.

This man was Henry Francis Lyte, an accomplished poet and an Anglican clergyman. For most of his adult life Lyte suffered from consumption – the slow, lin­gering disease of the lungs that led to the death of many a person in his nineteenth century world. He had feared death; but as it came, and as he meditated on Christ’s promise to be with His people, he found he could face it with peace and joy. And the words of Abide with me have encour­aged countless Christians who have sung them ever since. As one expert on English hymnody has written, ‘Abide with me ranks with the classics in every sense. In it this obscure and humble curate has ministered to a parish as wide as the English-speak­ing world.’

An Orphan Child⤒🔗

The sorrows of little Henry Lyte’s boyhood years are very moving. His father, a military man, abandoned his wife and their three sons and left for the island of Jersey in the English Channel. Before he did, he placed seven year-old Henry and his older brother in a boarding school in Northern Ireland. Mrs Lyte and the littlest boy went to London so that she could find work as a nurse. Soon after, both mother and small boy died. No one told the two remaining boys at school in Ireland: perhaps no one knew what had happened? Homesick and lonely, Henry won­dered why his mother did not come to him, or even write a letter. One of his earliest poems conveys this sense of desolation:

Stay, gentle shadow of my mother, stay;
Thy form but seldom comes to bless my sleep.
Ye faithful slumbers, flit not thus away,
And leave my wistful eyes to wake and weep...
Light of my heart and guardian of my youth,
Thou com’st no more to fancy’s slum­bering bed,
To aggravate the pangs of waking truth...

When it became obvious that there was no further financial support available for the two boys, it looked as though they would have to be placed in the local poorhouse. Then the headmaster of their school, Dr Burrowes, stepped in. He had grown fond of the boys, and Henry, in particular, was already showing considerable promise. Dr Burrowes generously decided to become their legal guardian and pay for the rest of their education himself. He encouraged Henry to study in a steady, disciplined way; but even so, there was time and energy for the talented boy to develop his poetic gifts. At only sixteen he wrote the following on the primrose, early English Spring flower:

Hail, lovely harbinger of Spring!
Hail, little, modest flower,
Fanned by the tempest’s icy wing,
Dusted by the hoary shower...

Around the time he wrote these words Henry began his university studies at Trinity Col­lege, Dublin, hoping to become a doctor. A tall, good-looking and vibrant young man, he made lasting friends quickly. He also did well in his studies, and won a number of prizes for his poetry. Perhaps unsurprisingly (given his gifts) he decided on the Christian ministry rather than medicine, and upon his ordina­tion in 1815 he began his first curacy in a village church in the south of Ireland.

Christ Alone Atones for Sin←⤒🔗

Although this was his chosen calling, it seems he had not yet experienced God’s sav­ing grace; and in his new, lonely situation, he began to battle with intellectual doubts about the Christian faith. He had heard of the Meth­odist revival, and knew of Methodist preach­ers and their message of new life in Christ; but at this time viewed them as ‘simpletons, unable rationally to defend their beliefs.’ (He was probably right, but they had the faith he so much needed.) During his time in this parish he made a close friendship with the vicar of a nearby church, a kind and upright man. When this friend took seriously ill, and was worried about the care of his wife and young children should he die, he turned to Lyte, who began to spend a great deal of time with him. As his friend was dying he asked Lyte a question that smote his heart: ‘How can I be sure of a happy eternity?’ He then declared that both of them had been leading their congregations astray, and that nothing but the death of Christ could atone for sin. Nothing else would prepare him for an eternity in God’s presence. When his friend died in this newly-received assurance, Lyte knew he himself would have to rethink his whole understanding of life and death.

The strain of all this led to a breakdown in Henry’s own health. His chest was affected, and he began to recognise the dreaded signs of tuberculosis, the ‘cancer’ of his day. It was obvious that a long break was needed, and he took leave of his church to travel for the warmer climate of the south of France. This helped him recover his strength, and while there, he spent a great deal of time studying the Scriptures. This confirmed all that his friend had told him about the need for Christ’s atoning sacrifice. He was com­pletely convinced, and resolved to begin his pastoral work anew.

A Blessed Marriage←⤒🔗

He arrived in England in 1817 and accepted a calling to a church in Cornwall, where he met and fell in love with Anne Maxwell, who was, unknown to Henry, heiress to a large fortune. Anne’s father, a clergyman, had known both John Wesley and George Whitefield well, but was quite hostile when his daughter began associating with the Methodists. As you can imagine, he was even more antagonistic when she became engaged to Henry, who had obviously ‘Methodist’ views.

Henry and Anne’s marriage was an ex­tremely happy one; despite the disapproval of Anne’s stepmother, in particular. They were blessed with five children; and one can see the goodness of God in giving Henry so much in the way of family love following such a difficult childhood. But Cornwall proved to be unfriendly to his health, so in 1823 he moved to another parish, this time on the south coast of Devon, not far from Ply­mouth. Brixham was a fishing town, and his parishioners were mostly rough, hardened fisher-folk. However, Henry was a very faithful pastor; and spent many a long day visiting his people in their homes, that were hewn from the rock of the cliff face. For a man of uncertain health it was no mean feat to be labouring up and down steep cliff paths, but he loved this work. Both he and Anne knew the dangers of a fisherman’s life. The church all agreed that whenever the boats were about to set out, the men would gather for a last sermon before they departed. Their pastor knew full well that it was likely some would never return and he gave a copy of the Bible to the captain of each ship, urging him to read it himself and to his men. Henry’s preaching was pointed and direct, though full of the warmth of his gentle nature. He was soon greatly loved by his people, and the church, which held 700, was usually full to overflowing.

The Ministry in Many Places and Times←⤒🔗

Lyte continued writing poetry, and numbers of his poems were sung as hymns in the church at Brixham. When published, oth­ers began to sing them as well. In 1834 (when he was 41) his paraphrase of 66 of the psalms was published with the title The Spirit of the Psalms. They have been described as ‘magnificent’ by Erik Routley, the historian of English hymnody. Henry himself had drawn great strength from the words of David in his own times of sickness and trouble; and he wanted his congregation to share the same blessing. One of these paraphrases is the famous and enduring

Praise, my soul, the King of heaven,
To His feet thy tribute bring;
Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,
Who like me His praise should sing?
Praise Him! Praise Him!
Praise the everlasting King. From Psalm 103

This hymn has a much-loved place in British national life; being among those sung during at least two important royal weddings, those of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth II; and at also the service for the fiftieth ju­bilee of Queen Elizabeth II’s reign in 2002. In August 1945 it was sung by emaciated men interned in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, when the news of the Japanese surrender came crackling over the radio. Henry Lyte could not have imagined how his poetry would be sung by generations to come!

The End which is the New Beginning←⤒🔗

As the years rolled by Lyte’s tubercular condition remained, flaring up from time to time during cold winters or from over-exer­tion. Thanks to Anne’s inheritance he was able to travel to the warmer climate of the Mediterranean regions whenever he needed to recuperate, but he was never entirely well. One great blessing was the house he was able to purchase in 1832. Berry Head House had a beautiful garden overlooking the sea; and many a time he enjoyed sitting watching the fishing boats return, and the sun set over the water.

But by 1847 he knew that the coming summer would probably be his last at home in England. He was weak and unwell. All his life he had feared the coming of death; but one summer evening, as he was sitting watching the sun set over the sea, he began to dwell on God’s unchanging character and its contrast with the impermanence of all created things. He then thought of the two disciples’ words to Jesus in Luke 24:29: ‘Abide with us, for it is toward evening.’ Reflecting on these words, he began:

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.

As Faith Cook observes, we can almost hear the young Henry calling out to his mother in the dark, begging her to stay with him. This becomes even clearer in the next two lines:

When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Lyte’s skill as a poet is very clear in the words of this hymn. His reversal of word order in repeating phrases serves to empha­sise his point. In addition, many of the lines contain a dramatic pause, usually after the first four syllables – a strategy that compels the singer to reflect on the seriousness of the words just sung. For instance:

Change and decay in all around I see
And where is death’s sting?
Where, grave, thy victory?

Lyte’s reflections on that summer evening of 1847 have been balm to many a troubled heart, wherever English hymnody has been taken, ever since.

As night closed in Lyte returned to the house and wrote the words down for Anne. He was becoming very ill, and knew he had to leave again for the Continent. On the morning of Sunday 4 September, a few days before he was due to travel, he astonished his fam­ily by announcing that he wanted to preach to his congregation once more; and so he mounted the pulpit one last time, warning and exhorting those he loved so much. There were many tears shed as he left Brixham for what seemed certain to be the last time. And indeed, when he reached the south of France, he found he could travel no further; he was so ill with flu. To his joy he discovered that all fear was removed from his death. As the end drew near he whispered,

O there is nothing terrible in death. Jesus Christ steps down into the grave before me ...  Blessed faith! Today piercing through the mist of earth; tomorrow changed to sight! Abiding for ever with the Lord.

Thanks be to God for the poetry of Henry Francis Lyte.