It is Well.

Every Thursday at our house we have "small group” I must say, it is wonderful, but also quite a bit of work to come up with good material every week. I don’t want it to be boring, sappy, purely intellectual, or just a time to get together to eat Ugandan doughnuts (I wouldn't think so anyways, they have nothing on Tim Horton's, and really, Timmys aint that good) Last week was quite good if I don’t say so myself, and after hearing what has happened with alot or peoples investments lately, I think this could be helpful.

Basically the topic was about 2 men, Job and Horatio. They both had bad stuff happen to them for apparently no reason. Most of us know about Job, but here is the story about Horatio Spatford.

Horatio Spafford was a wealthy Chicago lawyer who was heavily invested in real-estate in Chicago in the late 1800’s. At the very height of his success, Horatio and his wife Anna suffered the tragic loss of their young son. Shortly thereafter, the Great Chicago Fire destroyed almost every real estate investment he had.

In 1873, Spafford scheduled a boat trip to Europe, to give his wife and daughters a much needed vacation from tragedy. Spafford sent his wife and daughters, ages 11, 9, 7 and 2, on ahead while he remained in Chicago, to take care of some unexpected last minute business. Several days later he received notice that his family's ship had encountered a collision in which all four of his daughters drowned; only his wife had survived.

With a heavy heart, Spafford boarded a boat that would take him to his grieving Anna, in England. It was on this trip that he penned those now famous words, when sorrow like sea billows roll; it is well, it is well with my soul.

It Is Well with My Soul | Horatio G. Spafford

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, 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!

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.