Thou has TAUGHT me to say...

This morning I awoke quite early (for me at least) with an oppressing anxiety that sat squarely on my chest. I don't get super anxious very often, and consequently hate it when I am. Unfortunately, I anticipate that this next week will be more of the same awakenings since the first comprehensive exam is Friday, and I have yet to feel prepared.

However, as I was sitting at my kitchen table this morning, a verse suddenly flew into my mind:

"Be anxious about nothing, but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:6-7)

After a few minutes, I noticed I had begun humming, "whatever my lot Thou has taught me to say, it is well with my soul." Now, this one line is significant in it's own right, but especially when I consider that the man who wrote it (Horatio Spafford) wrote it after the death of his son and four daughters (in two different incidents). He had also lost his legal practice because of the great Chicago fire. This man lost so much. And yet, he wrote these words as a prayer of supplication and thanksgiving:



When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But Lord, 'tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.