Prone to Wander, Still Held Fast

Robert Robinson was twenty-two years old when he wrote the words that would haunt him for the rest of his life. It was 1757, and the young pastor was preparing a Pentecost sermon when he penned what we now sing as Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing. The hymn pulsed with gratitude — Here I raise my Ebenezer, hither by Thy help I'm come — but buried in the third verse was an admission as honest as anything in the Psalms: Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it / prone to leave the God I love.…