For every service I preach at the local county jail, I choose two songs to sing from the old red-back church hymnal. This past Sunday, the songs were “He Set Me Free” on page 235 and “Amazing Grace” on page 57.

After we sang “He Set Me Free,” I told the group of about twenty-five men to turn to page 57, and that we would sing “Amazing Grace.” As the music began, I noticed something unusual. It was something I had never seen before.

Across the room, scattered in different places, I saw about five men get a strange look on their faces. Then one by one, they closed the hymnal in their hands, reached down, and picked up another one that was close by.

It took me a moment to realize what was happening.

They had turned to page 57, only to discover that page 57 had been ripped out of the hymn book.

I was around back in 2003 or 2004 when those hymnals were purchased. They were seconds, meaning they were of lesser quality, but the preacher over the jail ministry at the time, Joe Eldridge, was absolutely thrilled that the ministry was able to purchase them. Needless to say, after more than twenty years of weekly use inside the jail, those hymn books have seen better days.

But as I thought about that unusual scene—men closing one hymnal and reaching for another because page 57 was missing—I began to wonder why.

Why was that page ripped out?

That single page, page 57–58, has only the chorus of “Grace for Every Need,” which I have not really heard sung since I was a child, and the verses of “He Will Be With Me,” which I do not believe I have ever sung. And right there between them, at the bottom of page 57, is “Amazing Grace.”

If someone tore page 57–58 out of the hymnal, I feel pretty confident their target was “Amazing Grace.”

But why?

That hymn, written in 1772 by former slave trader turned Anglican pastor John Newton, has been recorded by obscure singers and famous artists alike thousands of times. If there is any song sung in a jail-house Christian service that the average man off the street might know a verse or two of, it would be “Amazing Grace.”

So I do not think page 57 has been ripped out of our jail-house hymnals because someone did not know the words.

So why?

My thoughts first ran to sentimentality.

It may not be this way everywhere in the United States, but where I grew up, in the buckle of the Bible Belt, most people have some kind of history with some kind of evangelical church somewhere. Maybe it was a little country church. Maybe it was a grandmother’s church. Maybe it was a revival meeting, a funeral, a homecoming service, or a Sunday morning long since buried under years of trouble, sin, sorrow, and distance from God. But more times than not (at least in the area) in that kind of setting, “Amazing Grace” is almost always sung at one time or another.

When I was in college, lost without God, I remember coming home from a basketball game crying my eyes out and hoping nobody saw me. It was my first year of college, and I was terribly homesick. Somewhere in that lonely night, I began singing under my breath a song I had sung with my family in church when I was just a boy. My dad would play the guitar. My mother would hold my little sister on her hip. I would stand on a chair behind the pulpit and sing my heart out.

That night, as a college student far from where I needed to be with God, the memory of that old song came back over me like a wave. I cried and cried as I sang it quietly to myself.

For years, I would point back to that moment and tell myself, “See! You must be saved. You cried. You felt something when you sang that song about God.”

But the truth was, I was living like the devil while trying to convince myself I had no reason to worry about my eternal destiny simply because I had shed a few tears over a Christian song I sang as a child.

That is sentimentality is not Christianity.

A tear is not the new birth.

A memory is not repentance.

A flutter in the heart over childhood days, mama’s voice, grandma’s Bible, or an old church song does not mean a man has been born again.

I suspect page 57 has been torn out of a lot of hymn books because of the sentimental feelings that come to the surface when someone sees “Amazing Grace.” Maybe they remembered singing it as a child. Maybe they remembered a mother or grandmother singing it. Maybe they remembered a funeral. Maybe they remembered a day when life was simpler, cleaner, safer, and farther away from the trouble they now carry.

But sentiment is not salvation.

Then I thought about another possibility.

Maybe it was not just the memories connected to the song. Maybe it was the message of the hymn itself.

It is one thing to know the lyrics in your head. It is another thing altogether to see them with your eyes.

There is something about looking down at that old yellowed page, with its ancient-looking font and the faint bleed of the blue page lining, and seeing those gospel words spelled out line after line. The hymn speaks of grace that reaches a ruined sinner. Grace that opens blinded eyes. Grace that teaches the heart to fear God, and then relieves those fears through faith in Christ. Grace that carries a man through dangers, toils, and snares. Grace that leads the believer all the way home.

Those words are rich with hope.

They speak of the wonder of the gospel.

They speak of the enduring assistance of God’s grace through life.

They speak of the eternal glory that the grace of God affords to those who believe.

No wonder someone might want to hold onto that page.

I do not condone tearing pages out of the old hymn books at the county jail. Those hymnals are already ancient and falling apart, and we need every page we can keep.

But secretly, somewhere down in the depths of my heart, I think I understand.

I can imagine a man sitting in that jail, carrying more regret than he knows how to speak, more sorrow than he knows how to explain, and more fear than he knows how to admit. I can imagine him opening that old red-back hymnal and seeing page 57. Maybe he read words he had heard all his life but never really considered. Maybe he saw himself in that old hymn—not as a churchgoer, not as a singer, not as a man with religious memories, but as a wretch who needed saving, a lost man who needed finding, a blind man who needed sight.

Maybe he came to that page on a dark night of despair and thought, “I need this.”

And while I would never tell a man to destroy a hymnal, I cannot say that I do not understand the ache that might make him want to keep page 57 close.

There are men in jail who need grace.

There are men outside of jail who need grace.

There are men in church pews who need grace.

There are preachers who need grace.

There are sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, addicts and hypocrites, backsliders and self-righteous church members, all standing in desperate need of the amazing grace of God.

But that grace is more than a song.

It is more than a feeling.

It is more than a memory from childhood.

It is more than a tear in the eye when the music begins.

The grace of God is found in Jesus Christ. It is found in the Son of God who came into this world to save sinners. It is found in His cross, His blood, His death, His burial, and His resurrection. It is found when a guilty sinner stops hiding behind memories, emotions, religion, and excuses, and comes honestly to Christ.

The torn-out page may have been sentimental to someone.

It may have been precious to someone.

It may have been carried away and folded into a Bible, tucked into a pocket, hidden under a mattress, or kept as a reminder in a lonely cell.

I do not know.

But I do know this: the message on that missing page is still true.

Grace can still save.

Grace can still find the lost.

Grace can still open blinded eyes.

Grace can still carry a man through dangers, toils, and snares.

Grace can still lead a believer home.

And today, in a room full of men wearing jail uniforms, with old hymn books in their hands and several of those hymn books missing page 57, we sang “Amazing Grace.”

Some men had the words in front of them.

Some men did not.

But the message of that hymn was still there, hanging in the room like a witness.

A page may be missing from the hymnal, but thank God, grace is not missing from the gospel.