THE QUIET HOUR

Hawera Star, Volume LIII, 4 November 1933, Page 2

THE QUIET HOUR

(Contributed for the Hawera Ministers’ Association.) “HOME, SWEET HOME” BY REV. JOHN INGS. Sir M. Monicr-AVilliains, tlie great Oriental scholar, publically stated that “There is no word that I know of in any Indian language exactly equivalent to that great old Saxon monosyllable ‘home.’ Let 'English speakers throughout the globe—who number at the present time nearly one hundred millions —whether Briton, Irishman, American, or dweller in our colonies cherish as one of the most precious possessions in his noble speech that little word of four letters, pregnant with a thousand nallowed associations and sacred memories; that little word ‘home.’ ”

Archbishop Trench says of the words Mother and Home —

“There are but given Two names of sweeter note, FATHER AND HEAVEN.’’

John Howard Payne was a school master’s son—a man without a home who wandered across three continents. He had times of loneliness and hardship. Success did not crown his efforts upon the theatrical stage, nor yet upon that larger stage of acting in real life. One day in Paris Payne threw himself down on the grass beneath a. shady tree in a park, and wrote the song of English songs:—

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there is no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met elsewhere. 'Home, home, sweet sweet home! There’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain! Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! The birds singing gaily that came at my call— Give me them! and the peace of mind dearer than all! ■Home, home, sweet sweet home! There’s no place like home!

J. IT. Payne longed for a home of his own. The beautiful American girl named Mary Harden withheld her consent and the home of which he dreamed was never realized. Home is something far more and something far otherwise than timber and iron, or brick or mortar. Home is a personality, one who fills in and fills up life. The Jews of old sang a song which has come down to us, in which home—a personality—is the theme. “The God of Jacob is our Home.” Jacob was a wanderer. He fled from home. He, too, was lonely and homesick. -Throwing himself at night fall on to the lap of mother earth he fell asleep. He dreamed. At the break of day he awoke. He awoke to find in that wilderness a home. God was his HOME. It was 'St. Augustine who cried “0 'God, Thou hast made us for Thyself, and our heart is restless, until it find rest in Thee.” We have seen a house well built and well equipped, richly furnished with the latest design of furniture, but she who was the HOME was not, for death’s finger had touched her. Home is a personality. It is not home unless there is a Lover. A house is one thing; home is another.

One of the most beautiful stories ever told is that concerning the youth who left home. He had money and friends in plenty. He had a gay time, but it did not compensate for what he had not —he had no home. Finally, he turned his thoughts and then his steps towards home. (Soon, lie was in his father’s arms. That was home. , A friend of mine in Australia lias put into verse the lad’s thoughts concerning home.

“With lofty hope and proud desire, With strength, I thought no road could tire. My heart with burning dreams afire, I fled from God mv HOME.

‘Sometimes amid rich wine and meal, Sometimes mid simple yellow wheat, And then the husks the swine did eat, I strayed from God my HOME.

With memories of the old lost years. My childhood’s joys, my prayers, my fears, And then with sudden bitter tears I THOUGHT of God my HOME,

Now past the hills of broken spell, Where those high longings used to dwell Now round the road I know so well My God I’m coming HOME.

For utter shame and trembling dread, As one in misery long dead. I cannot, dare not, lift my head To THEE., my God my HOME.

But, feet are running down the lane; A voice comes crying through my pain ‘Mv son,’ ‘my son,’ alive again. My God, my God, My HOME.”