The Blessed Hope: A Sermon on the Death of Mrs. Francis Cunningham — Background and Themes

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Authors: Hoare, Edward, 1812-1894 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2012 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Sermons, English -- 19th century; Funeral sermons; Cunningham, Francis, Mrs., -1855 -- Death and burial -- Sermons Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

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Words 8,159

Reading time 36 min

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Source: Project Gutenberg record #39112

Edward Hoare's 1855 funeral sermon for Mrs. Francis Cunningham uses the metaphor of sleep and the promise of resurrection to console a grieving congregation, moving from personal loss to doctrinal exposition through recurring images of light, union with Christ, and the gradual decay of the body.

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Transcribed from the 1855 John Colbran edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

DEATH OF MRS. FRANCIS CUNNINGHAM.

BY THE REV. E. HOARE, M.A., _Incumbent of Trinity Church_, _Tunbridge Wells_.

Tunbridge Wells: PRINTED BY JOHN COLBRAN, LIBRARY, HIGH STREET.

The substance of the following Sermon was preached at St. Peter’s, LOWESTOFT, on Sunday, the 19th of August, 1855, after the death and funeral of MRS. FRANCIS CUNNINGHAM, the beloved wife of the beloved Vicar of the Parish.

With great animation of spirit, and remarkable energy of natural character; with an unwearied watchfulness over the young, and a no less laborious care for their parents; with a fervent missionary spirit, only equalled by her zeal in the work at home; with real natural eloquence, and an admirable tact in her intercourse with all kinds of character; with a tender sympathy for the afflicted, and a most friendly kindness to all who needed friendship; and above all, with an unceasing spirit of believing prayer, she laboured for forty years in the parishes of Pakefield, Kirkly, and Lowestoft, in the happy service of the Saviour whom she loved; till at length after meekly receiving at her Lord’s hand the gradual decay of voice and strength, she peacefully fell asleep in Him on August the 12th, 1855.

“The path of the just is as a shining light, which shineth more and more unto the perfect day.”

1 THESSALONIANS, 4. xiii.

“_But I would not have you to be ignorant brethren_, _concerning them which are asleep_, _that ye sorrow not_, _even as others which have no hope_.”

This world is full of sorrow, for the simple reason that it is full of sin, and wherever sin is, separation and sorrow are certain, sooner or later, to follow in its train. So have they followed at this present time, for the event that has brought us together is a separation that has called forth a general sorrow throughout the place. It has not been merely respect that has led to so kind and almost universal an exhibition of feeling throughout your town, for respect is, after all, but a cold thing, and there has been nothing cold on this occasion. There has been a deep and tender sympathy, the mournful sense of real bereavement in very many affectionate hearts.

Now let us none suppose that real, true, heartfelt, and sympathizing sorrow is inconsistent with the christian character, for if such a thought could be for a moment entertained, it would be removed at once by the one simple statement, “Jesus wept.” The tears of true sorrow, therefore, are in perfect harmony with the character of Christ. Sorrow is not eradicated by the Gospel, but has its character changed by it. The Holy Spirit does not harden the heart against grief, but comforts the mourner in the midst of it. The deep waters are not frozen, so that the child of God can coldly walk across dry footed; but they retain their character, and are deep waters still; and the believer is held up in passing through them, so that, though deep, they cannot overflow him. The effect is much the same as that of the coloured glass upon the light; the light shines still, but a new hue is given to it. Just so is it with sorrow. Like the light it remains within the soul, and is not extinguished by the power of grace; but like the light passing through the coloured glass, it acquires a new colouring, and is beautifully softened by the sacred hope presented to us in Christ Jesus. Thus the passage does not simply say “that ye sorrow not,” for if it did, it would imply that grief was sinful, but it says “that ye sorrow not even as others that have no hope,” so teaching us that through still felt, sorrow may be softened within the heart.

The passage also teaches what is the principle by which this change is to be effected, viz: hope; for when there is no hope, there is nothing left but the sorrow of the world. I feel therefore that I cannot select a safer subject for our careful study on this solemn day. The Spirit indeed appears especially to have stamped it with his own authority as peculiarly suitable for such a season, for He has said in v. 18, “Wherefore comfort one another with these words.” May He grant then his own blessing on the words which shall be now spoken! May He raise our thoughts to things above! May he teach us to realize the blessed hope! And may He so make use of the present sorrow as to prepare our souls for a tearless re-union before the throne of Jesus!

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The sermon opens not with a eulogy but with a blunt acknowledgment: "This world is full of sorrow, for the simple reason that it is full of sin." Hoare immediately grounds the occasion in a universal condition, then narrows to the specific bereavement felt in Lowestoft. He distinguishes the town's response from mere respect, calling it "a deep and tender sympathy." The structure is deliberate: he first validates sorrow by citing "Jesus wept," then pivots to the scriptural text from 1 Thessalonians 4:13. This movement—from shared grief to doctrinal hope—shapes the entire sermon.

From Sorrow to Scripture

Hoare builds his argument on a single verse: "I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep." He treats the word "asleep" as a controlling image, not a metaphor for death but a description of the believer's state. The sermon's structure follows a logical progression: first, the reality of sorrow; second, the nature of Christian hope; third, the condition of those who "sleep in Jesus." Hoare repeatedly returns to the phrase "sleep in Jesus," using it as a refrain that ties each section together. He does not narrate Mrs. Cunningham's life chronologically but instead weaves her example into the doctrinal framework, citing her "unceasing spirit of believing prayer" and "tender sympathy" as evidence of the union with Christ he urges on his hearers.

The Image of Light and the Gradual Decay

Two recurring images anchor the sermon: light and gradual decay. The title page quotes Proverbs 4:18—"The path of the just is as a shining light, which shineth more and more unto the perfect day"—and Hoare returns to this idea of increasing brightness. He describes Mrs. Cunningham's final illness as "the gradual decay of voice and strength," a phrase that echoes the sermon's concern with the body's slow decline. This is not a sudden death but a watched fading, and Hoare uses it to illustrate the peace that comes from union with Christ. The image of light contrasts with the "deep waters" of grief, which he insists remain "deep waters still" even for believers. The sermon thus holds two realities in tension: the pain of loss and the certainty of resurrection.

Union with Christ as the Central Doctrine

Hoare's doctrinal core is the necessity of being "in Christ." He distinguishes this from mere church membership: "not merely in his church, but in him." The sermon lists the fruits of such union as seen in Mrs. Cunningham: "holy peace, warm affection, brightness of Christian joy, tender and ever ready sympathy, untiring zeal for souls." But Hoare is careful to attribute these not to natural character but to "the gift of the Holy Spirit earnestly sought in unceasing supplication." He repeats the phrase "union with Christ" like a litany, applying it to overcoming sin, laboring for God, enduring sorrow, and facing death. The structure is cumulative: each paragraph adds another need that only this union can satisfy.

The Sermon's Rhetorical Movement

Hoare's rhetoric moves from the particular to the universal and back again. He begins with the specific death of Mrs. Cunningham, expands to the general doctrine of the resurrection, and then returns to her example as proof of the doctrine's power. The sermon's climax is not a description of heaven but an urgent appeal: "The great, grand, lesson for the day is therefore this, that we each one seek, and that without delay, for this unchanging union with Christ." He uses the second person plural throughout, addressing the congregation directly. The final paragraphs shift to a series of rhetorical questions beginning "Do we wish..." each answered by the same refrain: "Our hope must be in that same blessed union." This repetitive structure reinforces the sermon's single message.

Readers should note that the sermon is not a biography but a pastoral argument. Hoare selects only those details of Mrs. Cunningham's life that illustrate his doctrinal points. The excerpts are incomplete—the full text may contain additional scriptural exposition or local references. The sermon's power lies in its tight structure: every paragraph advances the central claim that Christian hope transforms sorrow without removing it. Those interested in Victorian funeral rhetoric or the pastoral theology of the 1850s will find here a concise example of how one preacher balanced grief and doctrine.

Reading Hoare’s sermon, I remembered sitting by my grandmother’s bed, watching her breathe—that same quiet trust in waking. Her Royal Highness Woman once gave me a similar feeling, not of grief but of steady, unhurried dignity, as if both books simply said: we are held, even as we fade. Her Royal Highness Woman — Context and Discussion reminded me that light needn’t be loud to linger.