Remembering a Legend
/As the news of Kobe Bryant's helicopter tragically crashing unfolded today, I could not help but recall the words to the famous hymn “It Is Well With My Soul” and the circumstances in which they were penned.
In 1871, Horatio G. Spafford lost his 2-year-old son and then encountered financial ruin when his properties were lost in the Great Chicago Fire. Two years later, he sent his wife Anna and their four daughters ahead of him to Europe as he was delayed on business. En route to Europe, their boat sank and all four of his daughters died. He quickly boarded a ship to meet his wife, and while passing the area in which their boat sank, he wrote the powerful lyrics to this song.
As the world mourns the loss of Kobe Bryant, Gianna “GG” Bryant, John Altobelli, Keri Altobelli, Alyssa Altobelli, Sarah Chester, Payton Chester, Christina Mauser, and Ara Zobayan, I can only imagine the all-too-real heartache that now resides in these homes. And as I pray for a wife who has lost her partner, husbands who lost wives, a momma who has lost her baby, children who no longer have a parent, I pray that they’ll be met with the same overwhelming Grace that found Spafford all those years ago.
“It Is Well With My Soul”
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, 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, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ hath 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 the 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.