The well-know hymn It is Well with My Soul is by far one of my favorites. Have you ever heard the history behind it? It was penned by Horratio Spafford who was no stranger to immense grief. His life story makes the words he generated all the more powerful. In reading of his loss I am reminded of Job's trials.

His only son died in 1871. Shortly thereafter was the great Chicago fire that left Spafford in financial ruin. Prior to the fire he was a successful lawyer and had a good bit of money invested in Chicago real estate. Two years later he planned a family trip England to join Dwight Moody and Ira Sankey on one of their evangelistic crusades, then travel in Europe. But Spafford had to stay back at the last minute. He sent his wife and four daughters off on the S.S. Ville du Havre, expecting to meet up with them as soon as he could. In a mid-Atlantic collision with another ship, the S.S. Ville du Havre sank rapidly, and all of Spafford's daughters died. His wife Anna survived by clinging to a piece of wreckage. She sent him a two-word telegram that read, "Saved alone." Can you imagine?

Spafford was led during those days of surely overwhelming grief to write this amazing hymn. He and his wife did eventually meet up with Dwight Moody. "It is well," Spafford told him quietly. "The will of God be done."

Notice that he did not dwell on the theme of life's sorrows and trials. Instead, he focused in the third stanza on the redemptive work of Christ, and in the fourth verse, anticipates His glorious second coming. I pray that I might have such a divine perspective when faced with earthly challenges that are no doubt ahead.

IT IS WELL WITH MY SOUL

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.

Refrain: 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!

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.

Horatio Spafford