... et evasi ego solus ut nuntiarem tibi.



The Vulgate's rendering of the recurring phrase from the first chapter of Job. And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.



The phrase is in my mind because of a very fine performance yesterday of Historia di Job, a rarely heard oratorio from the pen of the first great composer in that form, Giacomo Carissimi.



Job did not, of course, as urged by his wife, curse God and die. And Job's hymns of assurance have been echoed by other men and women down the centuries as they faced severe and heart-rending loss. Among the most moving of those stories of aching pain met with noble and Christian resignation is that of Horatio Gates Spafford, who died in Jerusalem on 16 October 1888 and who was born on this date in 1828.



Although their own losses in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 brought them near to financial ruin, Horatio Spafford and his wife worked selflessly to aid other victims and to help in rebuilding lives. Months later, after the sudden death of his son, Spafford sent his wife and four daughters abroad on the S.S. Ville de Havre. Two ships collided in the North Atlantic and Spafford received his wife's telegram with the grim message Saved alone, the words unconsciously echoing the phrase from Job.



Crossing the Atlantic to be with his wife, Spafford's own ship sailed past the site of the collision, the site of his daughters' graves. And he set down the words to one of the greatest of hymns of assurance and hope, It Is Well With My Soul.



When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou has 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!



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!

Blessèd hope, blessèd 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.