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There’s a wonderful podcast called Song Exploder, where host Hrishikesh Hirway invites songwriters to talk about the origins and construction of their songs; they ‘explode’ the song apart to share insights about the ideas for the song, and about the various parts as it goes from hummed melody and chords on a piano to fully arranged and produced.

Much like that process, there is a process here at Hymn by Hymn too; I am gonna explode my own process for a few minutes – break it apart and explain how I get from spiritual practice to post. (I should note that it didn’t start this way, but curiosity led to this process after a few short weeks).

It starts with coffee. Or at least the making of… I get the coffeemaker set up, press on, and then sit down nearby with my hymnal. Flip, flip, flip to the right page, and I start to sing. If I’m lucky, I know the hymn, or at least the tune (I’m getting a lot better at recognizing tunes by their name because of this). If I don’t, I do a search through various hymn tune sites…maybe YouTube… and as a last resort, open the keyboard app on my phone to plunk out the melody. And I sing.

I really do sing the song, folks. Sometimes it’s quietly, sometimes it’s begrudgingly, sometimes it’s joyfully, sometimes it’s robustly … but I always sing it. I do that because I know that singing shifts our bodies energetically – it gets something moving in our bodies and our souls. And singing lyrics wakes up the mind, too.

Out of the singing comes some experiences, some questions, some affirmations. It might be a lyric that stops me, or a melodic phrase that captures me, or questions arising about its origins. I think about those questions, as well as my opening line, while I prepare the first sacred cup of the holy brew.

Then I sit down to the computer.

Sometimes I know just where I’m going and I begin writing. Other times, my curiosity leads me to a bit of research, which helps me frame my post for the day. I will often have half a dozen tabs open as I look at the hymn’s usage, origin stories, the composer’s bio, alternate lyrics. Sometimes there’s a poetry page or two, and often some YouTube examples of the song. Sometimes (like yesterday) there’s an email or text conversation with the composer or a member of the hymnal commission to offer further insights.

By the time I’ve done a bit of work, I have a pretty good sense of how to proceed – how to explore my own experience of singing, my own thoughts about the musicology, poetry, theology, spirituality, and liturgy reflected in my experience. I write, then find an image (often from Pixabay but sometimes from other sources), tag it, and publish it. By that point I’ve finished my first cup of coffee and can get on with my day. And a second cup of coffee.

—

Now I tell you all this because the experience I had singing this round today does not match the subsequent research I did before I sat down, and I stared at this screen for several minutes trying to find a way to explain what happened from first sung notes to first words on the post. And I probably wrote that whole piece above as a way to avoid the inevitable.

As we have Shlomo Carlebach’s round here, it’s a gorgeous invitation to return to ourselves, to remove the masks, to get back to what we know is true about ourselves. Return to the home of your soul… gorgeous. As I sang it I felt a bit of release, comforted by this reminder.

Return again, Return again,
Return to the home of your soul.

Return to who you are,
Return to what you are,
Return to where you are
born and reborn again.

But of course it also made me wonder about Carlebach, and if there are recordings of the piece for those who are unfamiliar. So I googled, and I discovered in listening to him perform the song that the lyric has been changed; the original is “return to the land of your soul.”

Of course that makes sense; Carlebach (known as “The Singing Rabbi”) was writing and performing songs specifically for a Jewish audience, writing songs that speak about the Divine in ways that “make other rabbis uncomfortable.” And given that, “Land” makes sense, with its significance to the Jewish people and their millennia’s-long desire to be home in Israel. The idea that the returning again is to a physical place – the land of your soul – is as important as and is maybe equal to/more resonant than returning to a sense of self.

Now I can see how the original lyrics might offer some resonance with people whose lands were stolen by greedy Europeans, or with people who were taken from their lands by greedy Europeans – I can’t speak for them but I suspect a Latinx or an African American might find some connection to the original lyric. However, as a descendant of greedy Europeans, I have no right and no standing to sing Carlebach’s original “land of your soul” – it seems like an affront.

Now I wouldn’t have had any of these thoughts if I’d not followed my process. And maybe I’d have been happy to continue using this song to focus on personal spiritual growth.

But now – even with the changed lyric that makes it less obviously about physical place – I struggle. I know the hymnal commission contacted Carlebach’s estate to get approval for the lyric change, but it still feels like, well, like we whitewashed the song.

And I don’t know what to do with that. Until this morning, and through the original singing, I loved this piece and have used it.

Now, I’m not so sure.

It’s still beautiful and lush, and I’m glad it’s here. But I’m just not sure about it anymore.

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Callou, callay! O frabjous day!

Yes, this joyful song leads me to quote Lewis Carroll – because there is in both a pure celebration of the moment. As arranged here by the always delightful Susan Peck, Wendy Luella Perkins’ song has energy and life. And because of the STJ commission’s commitment to good singing, Peck has added a harmony line. Her choral arrangement adds even more harmonies and rhythms that bring the song as close to Kool & the Gang’s “Celebration” without going full-on funk.

It’s a great piece. And…this isn’t the whole song.

Oh, we give thanks for this precious day,
For all gather’d here, and those far away;
For this time (food) we share with love and care,
Oh, we give thanks for this precious day.

I know this because I asked.

From 2009-2013 (and picking up again this year), I was the coordinator for our cluster-wide joint services – four (now five) congregations coming together to worship and connect. In our first year, it was about building bridges between our congregation; our second year was then about seeing ourselves not just as individual congregations but as one larger body in the Capital Region. We wanted to open joyfully with this song, but it didn’t quite do all we wanted it to do – including give time for a processional. The committee talked about other songs but kept coming back to this one, and finally I said I’d contact the composer to see if she had other verses.

Which she did – and happily gave us permission to use:

Oh, we give thanks for the old and young,
For a time of wonder, joy, and fun
For all we give as we grow and live,
Oh, we give thanks for the old and young.

This gave us a generational connection even as we were making other, broader connections. And it gave us another verse to sing, deepening the meaning of all that we were giving thanks for on that day.

We give thanks for this precious song.

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Among the many things I have learned in this practice is that while on one level, hymns are communal, they are in fact highly personal; a song one might love is the very one that another hates with the fire of a thousand suns. Some of my favorites have been met with derision, and some of the hymns on my nope list have been defended so strongly that I have felt like a pariah.

But then there are some pieces that are not only widely beloved but also become useful tools for pastoral care, community building, and spiritual practice – like today’s amazing piece by Sarah Dan Jones.

I asked Sarah Dan if we could chat (and maybe produce a Hymn by Hymn Extra) but her schedule wouldn’t allow for it; she did, however, share some of the background:

I wrote the song just after September 11th. (You can hear the full song here). I was so filled with despair, and I needed to channel that into some hope.  When the call came for Singing the Journey, I decided to submit the chorus as a chant.  Susan Peck helped me set it (she actually wrote the descant line).

The song has since taken on a life of its own.  It was sung at a student vigil after the Virginia Tech shootings (I know that because of an article in the Washington Post that someone brought to my attention.  The text was listed, but no attribution).. It has been sung at rallies all over the place – Phoenix GA (and before, when folks were arrested protesting Arpaio). I have given permission for its use at camps, congregations who put together their own “hymnal”, and youth groups. I have had requests from all over North America, and Europe.  I have no idea how and where it is being sung, so I have to let that go.

When folks talk to me about it (like when I sing it when visiting out), they range from parents using it to sing their kids to sleep, adults using it in meditation, hospice choirs.  Once, a man told me about how he and his husband had purchased two pigmy goats – they were in the back seat being driven to their new home and making all kinds of noises.  The men starting singing the chant and the goats calmed down (I often tell that story and note how the chant it multi-species!!).

Yes. Sometimes a song is just timeless. And while the verses of the full song are in some ways specific for its origins (although some days, it seems perfect for the moment), the chorus, which we sing, is timeless.

When I breathe in,
I’ll breathe in peace.
When I breathe out,
I’ll breathe out love.

Breathe in, Breathe out,
Breathe in, Breathe out

I will say this one thing: the rhythm of the drone (Breathe in, breathe out) is not square, and congregations are wont to square it up, which throws the other two parts off and before you know it, the whole song’s gone pear-shaped. It is really important to have strong voices hold that syncopation down and fight against the squaring off… because when it’s done right, it’s simply amazing.

What a gift this piece is – to our movement and beyond.

 

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I want to like this one.

Composer Joyce Poley is one of the sweetest human beings I ever met. She was open, generous, and kind to us UU Musicians Network conference newcomers. She had amazing insights when it came to song leading. And there is a sweetness to the music she writes.

And there is an earnestness to the lyrics; they want to be good and inclusive and expansive. They want to paint a picture of beloved community. There are some great lines, too – “we see our faces in each other’s eyes” and “trust the wisdom in each of us” are fantastic nuggets of insight.

But the truth is, I don’t like this song. And not just because of the grammatical oddity of “our heart”.

I don’t like it because it’s bad theology.

Chorus:
When our heart is in a holy place,
When our heart is in a holy place,
We are bless’d with love and amazing grace,
When our heart is in a holy place.

When we trust the wisdom in each of us,
Ev’ry color ev’ry creed and kind,
And we see our faces in each other’s eyes,
Then our heart is in a holy place.

Chorus

When we tell our story from deep inside,
And we listen with a loving mind,
And we hear our voices in each other’s words,
Then our heart is in a holy place.

Chorus

When we share the silence of sacred space,
And the God of our Heart stirs within,
And we feel the power of each other’s faith,
Then our heart is in a holy place.

Chorus

At least it’s bad Universalist theology, because it’s creating conditions where none should apply. I’m reminded of this from Hosea Ballou:

“Your child has fallen into the mire, and its body and its garments are defiled. You cleanse it, and array it in clean robes. The query is, Do you love your child because you have washed it? Or, Did you wash it because you loved it?”

This song… this sweet song written by this sweet person… suggests that we are only loved, only holy, when we have been behaving in open and expansive ways. “We are blessed with love and amazing grace when our heart is in a holy place” reads the lyric. No. Just… no. We are blessed with love and amazing grace because our hearts are always and already holy places. Sure, we should do these other things, but the conditional nature of this lyric is just… wrong.

I’m sorry, Joyce, I don’t like your song.

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Sometimes in this practice I am caught up in the flow of the experience, the memories, the theological and spiritual musings. Sometimes I am fascinated to learn more about the composer, the song’s origins, and its care.

Today was intended to be the latter – who is Rose Sanders and where does this song originate? It has echoes of a piece I’ll share after the lyrics, but I’m curious… because it has all the hallmarks of a 19th century spiritual but has apparently been written in the last 50 years.

And. This is a mystery I can’t seem to solve today, partly because the UUA Song Information page omits any information about this song, and because my Google searches come up empty. This frustrates me. I hate not knowing. And so, gentle readers, any information you have will be more than welcome.

Meanwhile, here are our lyrics; more after this break.

There’s a river flowin’ in my soul.
There’s a river flowin’ in my soul.
And it’s tellin’ me that I’m somebody.
There’s a river flowin’ in my soul.

There’s a river flowin’ in my heart…
There’s a river flowin’ in my mind…

When I was little, Sesame Street was the most progressive place on television (except maybe for the Smothers Brothers); the characters lived in a multicultural community with at least two languages spoken, and along with letters and numbers, we learned basic skills and ethics.

Often, there were guests – some we knew, some we didn’t, but all welcome. In 1971 (I was 7), a young lawyer and activist came on to do a spoken word poem with a group of kids:

I remember this so clearly; Jesse Jackson’s words were rhythmic and exciting and energizing. In my own life, saying “I am somebody” was a counter-affirmation to the bullying I was already experiencing. I had no idea then but grew to understand the affirmation was vitally important to anyone of an oppressed group. To stand up and say “I am somebody” shouldn’t be radical but is.

And this is why I love this song today. It’s not just a sweet song to sing together – it’s a radical statement of inherent worth and dignity.

I don’t know who Rose Sanders is, but I’m glad she wrote this song of self-affirmation.

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This song speaks the truth in my heart.

This song allows me to cry.

This song is a balm to my soul.

Composer Jeannie Gagné wrote it to give voice to “those things which are not expressed, kept within the silence of our hearts” (as noted here) – that moment after spoken joys and sorrows, to honor the unspoken. And more than once, I have needed the quiet strength this song provides; its tender melody matching its tender lyrics.

I am worn, I am tired,
in my quiet sorrow.
Hopelessness will not let me be.
Help me.

I won’t speak of this ache
inside, light eludes me.
In the silence of my heart,
I’m praying.

I keep on, day by day,
trusting light will guide me.
Will you be with me through this time,
holding me?

You’re my hope when I fear
holding on, believing.
Deep inside I pray I’m strong.
Blessed be.

I could – and did – spend a long time with this hymn this morning. But much like the music, the moment demands not so much my words as my silent witness.

Amen. Blessed be.

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A few times over the course of this practice, I’ve talked about the work of a hymn, mostly in reference to hymns that I don’t think carry their weight. And some of you have asked me what I mean by that, and it’s important as we approach today’s hymn, which I’m not sure I like.

For me, this discussion begins with remembering the inextricable connection between worship and theater, as ancient humans began to act out their centering stories and ideas about how the world and the mysterious worked. As religions develop with their various performative elements, so does performance outside the ritual space, each growing up and changing in tandem. At some point there’s a clear delineation, yet through the millennia, liturgy learns from theater learns from liturgy learns from theater ad infinitum. It shouldn’t surprise you that one of my courses in seminary was entitled Ritual and Performance, where we explored performative arts in our deepening of ritual form and function.

Now central to theater, and subsequently to worship as well, is what we might call  story arc; something shifts from the time we start to the time we finish. If we’re listening to a fairy tale, we go from ‘once upon a time’ to ‘they lived happily ever after.’ If we’re watching a play – say, Romeo and Juliet – we go from ‘Two households, both alike in dignity / In fair Verona, where we make our scene” to ‘For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” And in between, there’s a story. We go from point to point, each part of the performance getting us further along.

This is especially important when we talk about musical theater, as what separates the art form from others is that the music isn’t tangential but is vital to the plot. Something changes or shifts during each song, whether it’s expository information that helps us get oriented (“Fugue for Tinhorns” from Guys and Dolls explains the setting and general character of our characters) or working out a decision (“Rose’s Turn” from Gypsy), or making/breaking a connection between characters (“No One Is Alone” from Into the Woods). Occasionally you have a true performance piece (“Don’t Tell Mama” from Cabaret), but even there, there’s something happening about character and plot, an undercurrent even as you enjoy the number.

Through this lens, then, liturgical elements in a worship service – from introits and opening hymns to prayers, readings, sermons, and offerings to benedictions and postludes – all have a performative character and are meant to do some work to  move our ‘story’ along. Sometimes our story, or arc, is hard to nail down, but whatever our worship’s intent, we are in fact telling a sacred story with words and music. Thus, thinking about each separate element in terms of this musical theater idea of the work of the songs will help create the emotional, spiritual, and intellectual journey we hope to bring people on (whether it be deepening, awakening, healing, etc.).

Which means our music – including our hymns – have work to do. They are elements that help shape the arc of our worship so that we’re not experiencing emotional or spiritual whiplash. It’s why we spend a lot of time looking for the right hymns with the right mood and feel, hymns that mean we’re a little bit changed (or have the potential to be) by the time we’ve finished singing them. And I recognize that one reason this spiritual practice of mine has become popular is that I give clues about the genre, mood, tempo, and emotional arc of these hymns, helping you place them well in the liturgical stories you’re telling each week. Whether it’s Gather the Spirit, serving as a prologue, or Find a Stillness, bringing us into prayer, or We Would Be One, bringing people together, or Wake Now My Senses, leading us to decisions about our call, or even Go Now in Peace, helping us make a transition in the story – these hymns do some work to serve the arc of worship.

Which brings me back to today’s hymn, a jazzy number by one of my favorite UU composers, Tom Benjamin.

When I first started today, I was sure my response would be one of pure disappointment, because on first singing, it’s simply a ‘yay nature’ song, and god knows we had plenty of those a year ago. Yet as I think about the things I’ve written above, I understand now that it’s not so much a ‘move the story along’ hymn but a ‘set the stage’ hymn – much like “Fugue for Tinhorns” – it tell us where we are and the character of the worship we are about to experience. And it sets a tone (upbeat and jazzy) that hopefully tells us more about what’s coming.

Praise to God and thanks we bring,
hearts rejoice and voices sing;
praises to the Glorious One;
for a year of wonder done.
Praise now for the budding green,
April’s Resurrection scene;
Praise now for the shining hours
starring all the land with flowers.

Praise now for the summer rain;
feeding day and night with grain;
praise now for the tiny seed;
holding all the word shall need;
Praise now for the garden root,
meadow grass and orchard fruit;
and for hills and valleys broad;
bring we now our thanks to God.

Praise now for the snowy rest,
falling soft on nature’s breast;
for the happy dreams of birth,
brooding in the quiet earth,
For this year of wonder done,
praise to the All glorious One;
hearts rejoice and voices sing;
praise and love and thanks we bring.

I was set to not like this hymn much and I’m still not sold on its surprisingly simple form that makes it feel (to me) a little boring, but even in my writing I have turned myself around a bit on its use. I’m not sure I would use it, but I can see how it could be used. What I hope is that what follows fits the mood as well as the theme – the service that would follow, if I were to design it, would use more upbeat, jazzy songs, maybe involve a story that feels improvised in parts, or a sermon that a conversation between music and words, perhaps include many places for voices to join together, and certainly explore the reasons why we sing praise to spring (even if it’s not actual resurrection) and what it does for our spiritual growth. If we don’t let the hymn’s work come to fruition, then it’s a weird ‘yay spring’ song and I’m not sure why it was used at all.

Thus endeth the lesson.

For readers in the US, may your Thanksgiving celebration be all you hope it will be and none of what you dread.

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There’s a terrible film from 1999 called The 13th Warrior featuring Antonio Banderas playing a 10th century Arab ambassador to northern Europe; he somehow finds himself included in a group of Vikings setting out to deal with a threat in a distant Viking land.  At the start of this quest, Banderas understands no Norse and can only watch events unfold. But as time goes on, he occasionally picks up a word here or there. The filmmaker’s one good idea in an otherwise awful movie was having the occasional English word pop up in the dialogue of the Vikings…then a few more, then finally the entire group is speaking English, showing that Banderas’ character understands the language now.

It’s a remarkable idea, the assimilation of language, and it was beautifully revealed despite the otherwise violent and plot-hole-filled nature of the movie. And I resonate with it, because while I studied Latin in college, anything I know of other languages I assimilated through Sesame Street, food, and music. I mention this, because while I don’t speak Spanish, I can read just enough of it – and the Latin, of course – to have a general sense of the song’s meaning. But more, I find it falls on the ear more beautifully and feels rich and authentic without even the most elegant of English translations.

Now I say all this because I am a bit embarrassed that I don’t know a second language and I should. But I also say this because I think we need to be more open to singing songs like this in English speaking congregations, with the Spanish lyrics, because given repetition, practice, and a helping hand, the lyrics will begin to make sense and the language will being to seep in, bit by bit. And maybe we can get outside ourselves a bit, too.

It helps to have a great song like this – great to me, anyway. Singer-songwriter (and poet, painter, and ecologist) Salvador Cardenal Barquero (who died at age 50 about seven years ago) wrote beautiful and rich melodies, making him an extremely popular figure in Nicaragua and Central America.

Revisa tu corazón
Para hallar el amor en un rincón.
Pero busca el amor.
Ni placer ni passion.
El amor lo que hace al otro bien

Chorus:
Busca el amor en ti.
Se multiplica si lo repartís.
Busca el amor en ti.
Sólo él que ama puede ser feliz.
Busca el amor en ti.
Se multiplica si lo repartís.
Busca el amor en ti.
Sólo él que ama puede ser feliz.
Busca el amor en ti, en ti.

Registra tu camaleón.
Cuando cambia el color del corazón
Y te estalla la flor.
Un pétalo del sol.
El amor lo que hace al otro bien

Chorus

English translation:

Examine that heart of yours,
As you look for the love on your high shelf,
Past the pleasure and passion
for your own self,
for the love that’s reaching someone else.

Chorus:
Seek out the love in you,
And find the joy that comes to those who care.
Seek out the love in you.
It only grows whenever it is shared.
Seek out the love in you,
And find the joy that comes to those who care.
Seek out the love in you.
It only grows whenever it is shared.
Seek out the love in you, in you.

Your heart’s a chameleon,
Ever open to change like any flower.
Spreading out for the sun,
petals bursting with power.
To be love that’s reaching someone else.

Chorus

I love the sentiment, too. As our UUA Song Information page says,

This song sums up the composer’s simple personal theology. Salvador Cardenal Barquero is a fifth generation Nicaraguan. He studied to be a Catholic priest as a teenager. He, as many of his generation, answered the call for regime change by forming Duo Guardabarranco with his sister Katia. His original songs explore the need for love. He is a devotee of evolving spiritual thought. He has set music to words of St Francis of Assisi, Rabindranath Tagore, and the Sanscrit Vedas (Srimad Bhaghavatam). His plaintive song Cualquier Hombre (Anyone) has poor people calling to God in all different names and “not asking for leftovers.”

Yes. Yes.

We need love, because it’s the only thing that works.

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Throughout this practice, I’ve happened upon many hymns that were inspired by (or were outright settings of) poetry; that makes sense, as lyric forms seek out one another naturally. But this is the first time I’ve encountered one inspired by paintings.

As noted on the UUA’s Song Information page,

The lyrics of this song come from the French title of a famous oil painting by Paul Gauguin created in Tahiti in 1897 and 1898. It is currently housed at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, MA. The three groups of women, read from the right to left, represent the three questions posed in the title of the painting. The women with the child represent the beginning of life “Where Do We Come From?” The middle group, represent the daily existence of adulthood “What Are We?” The old woman facing death is asking, “Where Are We Going?”

Wow.

It’s an amazing painting; the photo I’ve used here doesn’t do it justice, I’m sure. (When am I in Boston next? I have some art to look at…) It is haunting and asks for a meditative encounter, not a quick glance and go. It’s deceptively intricate in its simplicity, and it sticks with you.

Much like this song, which can be sung as a canon, a round, a chant, with about as many permutations as you can imagine. It embodies the questions and mood of the painting in haunting and meditative countermelodies.

 Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?

Where do we come from?

Mystery. Mystery. Life is a riddle and a mystery.

Where do we come from? Where are we going?

And these are questions I’m asking myself a lot lately. As I facilitate a couple of UU Wellspring groups, I have the opportunity to both be present to myself and look back at the pre-seminary me who took this for the first time. The questions I had then aren’t the questions I have now, but I still seek answers as I look to where I have come from. And then more generally, where do we come from and what does it mean to dwell in such a time as this, wondering where we are going and how to be present in those riddles.

This is a small song, taking up only half a page.

But it is actually one of our biggest.

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Sometimes you have stories you just tell. Othertimes, you have stories that definitely have titles. I call this one “Snoring for God.”

Our scene unfolds as my then boyfriend, Carl, and I are driving in New England. We’d started in White Plains (where Carl’s flight landed), drove over to Connecticut and hopped on Route 7, stayed overnight in Bennington, headed eventually to Rutland, then finally back into New York and home. Carl had had a busy few weeks, and  while I navigated the rolling turns of the road, Carl viewed the beauty of the Green Mountains through his eyelids. In the quiet, I began humming some of my favorite spirituals: “Over My Head, I Hear Music in the Air” … “There Is More Love Somewhere.” Eventually I landed on this piece, by Mimi Bornstein:

 

Comfort me, comfort me,
comfort me, oh my soul.
Comfort me, comfort me,
comfort me, oh my soul.

Sing with me, sing with me…

Speak for me, speak for me…

Dance with me, dance with me…

Now I got through the first two verses easily, but instead of singing Bornstein’s lyric “speak for me,” I began to sing “speak TO me”….

And God said, “I have been. I never stopped. You are the one who stopped.”

Blink.

Look over to Carl.

Sleeping soundly.

Radio isn’t on.

Phone hasn’t rung.

Blink.

And so I asked, “I haven’t heard you. How have you been speaking to me?”

God’s answer came immediately as the napping Carl let out a loud, forceful snore.

Which made me realize – though tears and light so strong that I had to pull over – that God always speaks, through the divinity in each of us. Through long conversations with trusted friends and colleagues… through poetry and music that makes us weep from their beauty… through books and ideas and sermons and films and television…  through the little moments of grace we witness and are blessed with. All of them, messages from the Mystery, all of them hoping that in the spirit of Kierkegaard, we would recognize them in retrospect.

For me, this was a key moment in my call narrative – because it was opening myself up to direct experiences of transcending awe and wonder that would result in some sense of communication (prayer?) that helped me deepen my faith and my sense of vocation. It allowed me to hear other messages that pointed me to ministry.

This song, y’all.

And it’s a beauty. Easy to sing, lush and gorgeous in its construction, soulful and meaningful. And I’m not just saying that because God speaks through it to me; I’ve found this to be a useful, helpful, healing song in many circumstances.

But I also can’t sing it without a part of me quietly chuckling.