December 29, 2001 marked the 125th anniversary of the worst train disaster in America up to that point. In that wreck was a young couple whose bodies were never found. But you will probably find his name many times in the hymnbook in the pew in front of you. His name was Philip Paul Bliss.

He was one of God's gifts to modern Christian music. A Pennsylvania farm boy who wrote some of the earliest gospel songs to gain wide popularity in both Britain and America, he had little formal music training and minimal schooling. Yet in the short span of 12 years (1864-1876), a devoted heart and a natural sensitivity to common folks inspired "Hold the Fort" (see below), "Almost Persuaded," "Let the Lower Lights Be Burning," "Hallelujah! What a Savior!" and the music to "It Is Well with My Soul," among many others. Evangelist D. L. Moody said of Bliss: "...I loved and admired him. I believe he was raised up of God to write hymns for the Church of Christ in this age, as Charles Wesley was for the church in his day.... In my estimate, he was the most highly honored of God, of any man of his time, as a writer and singer of Gospel Songs, and with all his gifts he was the most humble man I ever knew. I loved him as a brother, and shall cherish his memory...."

Moody first met Bliss in 1869. The evangelist was holding meetings in Wood's Museum Theatre in Chicago. Moody's approach was to preach in the open air from the steps of the nearby courthouse for about thirty minutes and then to urge the crowd into his meeting. Bliss and his wife, having heard of Moody but never having heard him, out for a stroll before Sunday evening services, happened onto the outdoor preaching. When Moody appealed to all to come inside, they followed. The music director was absent that evening, the singing was weak, and from his place in the congregation, Bliss's voice, strong and confident, attracted Moody's eye. Later Moody greeted folks at the door. Bliss met him and related, "as I came to him he had my name and history in about two minutes, and a promise that when I was in Chicago Sunday evenings, I would come and help in the singing at the theater meetings." Moody asked some music publisher friends, "Where in the world have you kept such a man for four years that he hasn't become known in Chicago?"

On the Moody Team
The association with Moody developed. In their last year, 1876, the Blisses spent a week with him at Northfield, Massachusetts, where the evangelist utilized their talents in a whirlwind of eleven meetings. With evangelist Major D. W. Whittle, their meetings ranged from Racine and Madison, Wisconsin; to St. Louis, to Mobile, Montgomery and Selma, Alabama; Augusta, Georgia; Chicago; Kalamazoo and Jackson, Michigan, finishing for the year 1876 in Peoria, December 14. They had talked of the Blisses going to Britain with Moody and Sankey, where Bliss's "Jesus Loves Even Me" had been instantly popular, "and more than any other hymn, it became the keynote of our meetings there," as Sankey wrote later.

The Blisses returned to be with family for the holidays in Rome, agreeing to meet Whittle in Chicago, December 31, and to sing at Moody's Tabernacle. In the old hometown, they spent "the happiest Christmas he had ever known" with his mother, sister, and in-laws; and leaving their children in the care of Mrs. Bliss's sister, the Blisses checked their luggage through to Chicago and boarded the train at Waverly, New York. When an engine broke down, they spent the night in a hotel, then continued their train journey in a blinding snowstorm.

Through the Snow to Chicago
As the train puffed its way through the snowy silence, just after 7:00, the evening of December 29, 1876, Bliss was observed in a parlor car with work spread out in his lap. He had a few weeks earlier written verses he titled, "I've Passed the Cross of Calvary" and over the holidays had come up with a fitting tune that he sang to family and, intending to work on it aboard the train, had placed it in his satchel for further attention. It may have been the very piece that occupied him as the train plowed through the snow. Crossing a trestle about 100 yards from the station at Ashtabula, Ohio, passengers heard a terrible cracking sound. In just seconds, the trestle fractured and the train plunged 70 feet into a watery gulf, the wooden cars captured by flames fed by kerosene-heating stoves. The lead engine made it across, a second engine, two express cars, and part of the baggage car rested with their weight upon the bridge while 11 railcars fell in raging fire. Of 159 passengers, 92 were killed or died later from injuries sustained in the crash, and many others were severely injured. Indeed it was the worst railroad tragedy to that point in American history.