THE POWER OF TRADITION by H. C. Miller

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Feb 25, 1868

THE POWER OF TRADITION

By H. C. Miller

To influence men, even after they have received of the Holy Spirit's enlightenment in some respects, is well attested by the lives of those now commonly believed to have been persons of deep and fervent piety. And not only they, but even we ourselves can testify to its power when we remember how our own eyes have been blinded to the plain meaning of Scripture by the errors that have been instilled into our minds by tradition. Such being the case, we see the foolishness of the question so often asked by people, as an objection to present truth, “If this be so, why did not Watts, and Wesley, and Luther, and others, find it out?” Such little comprehend the darkness and error that made drunken the people of their day, or the gross superstition of their times.

But this leads me to another idea. I was much pleased to see that it failed to be shown awhile ago that Dr. Watts was the writer of that horrible verse teaching that

“Hell is crammed with infants damned, Without a day of grace.”

But in looking over an old copy of “Watts' and Select Hymns,” I came across the following, which is quite as barbarous and unscriptural, and shows the views then held of a merciful judgment by the Lord upon sinners. I quote it not to weaken any one's love or respect for the religious character of the Doctor, but to show how drunken the most enlightened of his day still were with the wine of the “Mother of Harlots.” It is in all of the later editions. The one I copy from bears the date of 1823. It is on page 400, and reads thus:

“With holy fear, and humble song, The dreadful God our souls adore; Rev'rence and awe become the tongue That speaks the terrors of his pow'r.

“For in the deep, where darkness dwells, The land of horror and despair,— Justice has built a dismal hell, And laid her stores of vengeance there.

“Eternal plagues and heavy chains, Tormenting racks and fiery coals,— And darts t'inflict immortal pains, Dyed in the blood of damned souls:

“There Satan, the first sinner, lies, And roars, and bites his iron bands; In vain the rebel strives to rise, Crush'd with the weight of both thy hands.

“There guilty ghosts of Adam's race Shriek out, and howl beneath thy rod; Once they could scorn a Saviour's grace, But they incens'd a dreadful God.

“Tremble, my soul, and kiss the Son: Sinner, obey thy Saviour's call; Else your damnation hastens on, And hell gapes wide to wait your fall.”

H. C. MILLER.