ABRAHAM WINGER

Bishop Abraham Winger, Sr., of Walpole was born January 20, 1822, and died in 1904. He was one of the outstanding ministers of his day. He was a class leader in the Methodist church and later joined the Tunker church. He could preach both English and German and many were converted under his preaching. His son, Christian, was chosen at that place and his son, Abraham, was born at the above place on December 11, 1852. He married Catherine Snider on January 6, 1874. Second he married Elizabeth Baker, daughter of Jonathan Baker, on January 14, 1890. He was the father of eight children. He kept store at Edgeley for two years, from 1885 to 1887. Abraham, Jr. and his brother Henry ran the cider mill from 1893 to 1900 and made applebutter and jelly. He was also a first class farmer and worked his father-in-law's, Bishop Samuel Snider, farm. He was chosen a deacon in Markham district for a few years and later, in 1894. was ordained a minister by Bishop Jesse Engle of Kansas. He bought the farm where his youngest son, Samuel, now lives. He held revival meeting at Houghton and Nottawa. He preached with much earnestness and used to line the hymns in a way that would make people think seriously, which was also true of him when he prayed. His manner of preaching was much like his father, admonishing them in tears with all gravity in sincerity and truth, contending earnestly for the truth once delivered to the saints. He died in 1916 and was buried in the Cober cemetery near Maple. He often used to give out this hymn:

My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly,
Those hours of toil and danger.

For now we stand on Jordan's strand
Our friends are passing over,
And just before the shining shore
We almost may discover.

We'll gird our loins my brethren dear,
Our heavenly home discerning,
Our absent Lord has left us word,
Let every lamp be burning.

Should coming days be cold and dark,
We need not cease our singing,
That perfect rest, naught can molest,
Where golden harps are ringing.

Let sorrows rudest tempest blow,
Each cord on earth to sever,
Our king says come, and there's our home,
Forever, 0 forever.

He often gave out this hymn at funerals:

A few more years shall roll,
A few more seasons come,
And we shall lie with them that rest,
Asleep within the tomb.

A few more suns shall set,
0'er these dark hills of time,
And we shall be where suns are not,
A far serener clime.

A few more storms shall beat,
On this wild, rocky shore,
And we shall be where tempests cease
And surges swell no more.

A few more struggles here,
A few more partings o'er,
A few more toils, a few more tears,
And we shall weep no more.

A few more meetings here,
Shall cheer us on the way,
And we shall reach the endless rest,
Th' eternal Sabbath day.

Chorus

Then 0 my Lord prepare,
My soul for that great day,
Oh, wash me in Thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.