"Watts is more reverential; Wesley more loving. Watts is stronger; Wesley sweeter. Watts appeals profoundly to the intellect; Wesley takes hold of the heart. Watts will continue to sing for the Pauls and Peters of the Church; Wesley for the Thomases and the Johns. Where both are so great it would be idle to attempt to settle their priority. Let us only be grateful that God in His gracious providence has given both to the Church to voice the praises of various classes." Henry Ward Beecher uttered one of the most beautiful of all tributes to "Jesus, Lover of my soul" when he said: "I would rather have written that hymn of Wesley's than to have the fame of all the kings that ever sat on the earth. It is more glorious. It has more power in it. I would rather be the author of that hymn than to hold the wealth of the richest man in New York. He will die. He _is_ dead, and does not know it.... But that hymn will go singing until the last trump brings forth the angel band; and then, I think, it will mount up on some lip to the very presence of God." George Duffield, author of "Stand up, stand up for Jesus," called Wesley's lyric "the hymn of the ages." No one will ever know how much help and consolation it has brought to souls in affliction. Allan Sutherland tells of the following pathetic incident: "On an intensely warm day, as I stood on the corner of a sun-baked street in Philadelphia, waiting for a car to take me to the cool retreats of Fairmount Park, I heard a low, quavering voice singing, with inexpressible sweetness, 'Jesus, Lover of my soul.' Looking up to an open window whence the sound came, I saw on the sill a half-withered plant--a pathetic oasis of green in a desert of brick and mortar--and resting tenderly and caressingly upon it was an emaciated hand. I could not see the person to whom the voice and hand belonged, but that was unnecessary--the story was all too clearly revealed: I knew that within that close, uncomfortable room a human soul was struggling with the great problem of life and death, and was slowly but surely reaching its solution; I knew that in spite of her lowly surroundings her life was going out serenely and triumphantly. I shall never forget the grave, pathetic pleading in the frail young voice as these words were borne to me on the oppressive air: Other refuge have I none; Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; Leave, ah, leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me!" Another Hymn of the Ages Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee: Let the water and the blood From Thy riven side which flowed Be of sin the perfect cure, Save me, Lord, and make me pure. Not the labors of my hands Can fulfil Thy Law's demands; Could my zeal no respite know, Could my tears forever flow, All for sin could not atone; Thou must save, and Thou alone.