Thomas Dorsey was not home when his son was born.

He was not home when his wife died after the birth of their son and when their son died the next day. He was away from home to speak and sing, when he got the telegram. It was 1932.

He came home with the grief, and to the grief.

And eventually, in response, he wrote “Take my Hand, Precious Lord.”

I heard that story the other day. I smiled in relief. Because that song always had an acknowledgement of heaviness to it. Rather than talking about how much praise we are bringing to God, there is a lament and there is an affirmation of the presence of God in the hardness.

On the odd chance that you need that story—and that song—I’m  passing it on to you.

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, help me stand
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand, precious Lord
Lead me home.

When my way grows drear
Precious Lord linger near
When my life is almost gone
Hear my cry, hear my call
Hold my hand lest I fall
Take my hand, precious Lord
Lead me home.

When the darkness appears
And the night draws near
And the day is past and gone
At the river I stand,
Guide my feet, hold my hand
Take my hand, precious Lord
Lead me home