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“Sweet” is the word I would use to describe this hymn.

Sweet lyrics, sweet sentiment, sweet tune. It’s not saccharine sweet, but rooted, old timey sound and wisdom sweet. It’s the kind of tune (another shape note tune, this time from the collection Missouri Harmony) you’d hope to hear played by a guitar, or maybe a violin, or perhaps even a banjo as you walked past a creek from that little cabin tucked in the woods up in the distance.

I don’t have a lot more to say about this sweet little hymn – except maybe a reminder of its message: take time to notice. Take time to meditate. Take time for spiritual practice. Take time.

What is this life if, full of care,
we have no time to stand and stare —
no time to stand beneath the boughs
and stare as long as sheep or cows;

No time to see, when woods we pass,
where squirrels hide their nuts in grass —
no time to see, in broad daylight,
streams full of stars, like stars at night;

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
and watch her feet, how they can dance.
A poor life this if, full of care,
we have no time to stand and stare.

Amen.

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Dr. Grathwohl would be proud.

You see, while I was a political studies/theater major at Meredith College in the 1990s, some of the courses that stick with me the most are the English classes – writing and composition, journalism, American literature, and everyone’s mandatory class, Major British Authors.

While many of my fellow students groaned and wondered, while hammering the first 18 lines of the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales (in the original middle English) into their noggins (“whan that Aprill with his shoures soute…”), what possible purpose any of this could have, others of us reveled in some of the most delicious writing in the English language. We got Chaucer and Shakespeare, of course, but also all the poets. Herbert, Donne, Spenser, Milton, Pope, Burns, Browning, Shelley, Keats, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and of course, Blake.

Now the reason I say Eloise Grathwohl would be proud is that I opened the page, sang the first couple of lines, and thought “Is this William Blake?” To which my answer was a glance at the bottom of the page to confirm my answer. I can’t help but wonder a little if I was already conditioned toward that reaction, since this appears to be the Major British Authors section of our hymnal.

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
all pray in their distress,
and to those virtues of delight
return their thankfulness— return their thankfulness.

For Mercy has a human heart,
and Pity a human face;
and Love, the human form divine,
and Peace, the human dress— and Peace, the human dress.

Then every one, of every clime,
that prays in deep distress,
prays to the human form divine —
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace — Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

Interestingly, this is only three verses of the five in the original poem – Blake’s second verse is, in spirit, a fairly UU sentiment, but I suspect the hymnal commission was struggling with how to make it not quite so male-heavy:

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is God, our father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is Man, his child and care.
 The fifth verse is also very First Principle, but also with troubling-for-our-time lyrics:
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.

Yikes. What do we do with that, other than omit it? I mean, the sentiment is right – but yikes.

Maybe this is one of the reasons we studied Major British Authors in undergrad – not just to understand the growth, beauty, and truth in the language and the art created with it – but also to understand the growth, beauty, and truth in the bend of the moral arc, the expansion of our understanding, the widening of our scope.

Dr. Grathwohl would be proud.

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Just before 5am I was awakened by a disturbing dream where a group of supervisors demanded that I quantify what percentage of myself was actively engaged in the resistance; I kept coming up empty because none of them accepted any of the ways I was engaged as valid, and both in my dream and in my waking, I was scared and exhausted from trying. I never went back to sleep, instead my mind worrying over the next four years and wondering if any of us will ever get a good night’s sleep again.

I finally dragged myself out of bed to make coffee and sing today’s hymn – another one that I tend to flip past, not because it is unknown but because it doesn’t ever seem to connect with what I’m looking for.

Well, tie me to a fence post and stick my head in mud. This was exactly what my soul and my dreams needed. Take a look, and I’ll explain.

Mysterious Presence, source of all —
the world without, the soul within —
thou fount of life, O hear our call,
and pour thy living waters in.

Thou breathest in the rushing wind,
thy spirit stirs in leaf and flower;
nor wilt thou from the willing mind
withhold thy light and love and power.

Thy hand unseen to accents clear
awoke the psalmist’s trembling lyre,
and touched the lips of holy seer
with flame from thine own altar fire.

That touch divine again impart,
still give the prophet’s burning word;
and vocal in each waiting heart
let living psalms of praise be heard.

You see, over the last month or so, it’s become vitally clear to me that what I can bring to the resistance is art – art in our congregational lives, in our worship, in our public witness, in our spiritual practices. Visual arts – drawing, painting, sculpture, graphics. Performing arts – dance, theater, music. Written arts – poetry, prose, spoken word, sermons. Liturgical arts. Circus arts. Burlesque arts. You see, when a society loses its art, it loses its soul. When we engage artistically, we cross borders, we connect, we forge relationships, we engage the difficult, we take risks, we are reminded of who we are and what is true. We find the truth in beauty and remember the beauty of truth.

And this hymn reminds us – reminds me – that the mysterious presence not only lives in all existence but inspires both the singer and the prophet, the poet and the sage. We need inspiration. We crave inspiration. In this incredibly uninspiring time, we need inspiration more than ever.

How engaged am I, Dream Supervisors? A lot more than zero… in fact, much closer to 100%. Because while I am tired and scared, I know that resistance looks like many things, and sometimes it looks like art.

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Confession: the first version of this blog was nitpicky and judgy, and by the time I got toward the end, I was really annoyed with myself. “Why can’t I just let this one be?” I thought. And so I looked not only at how critical I was being but how humorless I was also being and thought “if I’m this annoyed with me, everyone else is gonna be too.” So I decided I could do better, deleted the whole supercilious mess, and started again.

And, apparently, felt the need to confess this to you. I think it’s partly because there’s something about this hymn that does bug me, and I don’t know what it is, so I went on a quibble hunt. I don’t know if it’s because there’s still binary language, or because the Alexander Pope poem that lyricist Michael Young riffed off of is troubling (third line of the original is “by saint, by savage, and by sage”), or if it’s because the tune is too cheerful to be a mystical/meditative song.

I don’t know. I suspect this is someone’s favorite – and it’s a decent piece, all in all. And I can imagine perhaps using it in a service that needs a more theistic view of the seventh principle.

Mother of all, in every age,
in every clime adored,
by saint, by poet, and by sage,
your praises high have soared.

Goddess of nurture and of love,
all nature sings your care.
In life’s extravagance you prove
the gift of giving fair.

O spirit of unfolding grace
and deepest mystery,
teach us compassion’s gentle face
and wisdom’s mastery.

Teach us to cherish this proud earth,
its fragile beauty praise,
and for the dreams your joy gives birth,
a hopeful future raise.

It’s a fine hymn. It doesn’t inspire me, but it’s fine. It surely is not worthy of my snarky criticism – and sometimes, as I taught a troll yesterday, just because you can snark doesn’t mean you should.

Thus endeth the lesson.

 

PS: I couldn’t figure out what image to use, so here’s a nice picture of Nature in Winter. With a bridge.

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As I dig deeper into this section of Mystical and Meditation Songs, I realize how much I love these songs – and need them. Right now, the congregation I serve only uses two hymns, so there is no contemplative hymn in the middle of the service. And oh, how I miss that. We still have a time of meditation, but we don’t sing together an intentional time of quieting. And there’s something about that moment that is… well, somehow sacred.

This is another of my favorites, period. Not just of this type of song, but a favorite hymn. It is evocative and gentle, set to the lovely Coolinge melody. in Between the Lines, Jacqui James notes that lyricist Monroe Beardsley wrote this for a service designed to show the meaning of silence.

From all the fret and fever of the day,
let there be moments when we turn away
and, deaf to all confusing outer din,
intently listen for the voice within.

In quietness and solitude we find
the soundless wisdom of the deeper mind;
with clear harmonious purpose let us then
bring richer meaning to the world again.

Mmmmm. Yes.

And knowing that one of the members of the Hymnal Commission also wrote a meditation book called Sonata for Voice and Silence, I suspect Rev. Mark Belletini may have had a hand in this being included… because the truth is, we are people of the word, but we’re so busy talking we often forget to listen. Mark’s meditations – and this hymn – call us back to silence, to be quiet for a moment, to “intently listen for the voice within.”

May we all find richer meaning – in our silence, in our encounters, and in our new year… which we hope, in the words of Sherman T. Potter (M*A*S*H), will “be a damn sight better than the old one.”

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I went on a bit yesterday about early Anglican poetry and music, not realizing that one of the most famous pieces – and my favorite – to come out of that era (1550-1650) was next on our hit parade.

This poem, “The Call,” was written by George Herbert, an Anglican priest and poet from Wales. Herbert was considered a masterful orator and writer, and did a brief stint in Parliament and as Trinity College’s public orator (because apparently that was a thing) before returning to the priesthood.

But what we remember from Herbert is not his service to the Crown or the Church but his writing. His posthumously published book A Priest in the Temple, more commonly known as The Country Parson is both a snapshot into early 17th century England and in parts could definitely be written today. It’s a slim volume that serves largely as a handbook for clergy in rural parishes; it addresses such practical questions as keeping house, and local charity, as well as providing advice for issues around marriage and caring for women in the parish. Herbert’s observations and advice are just as appropriate for today; proof that while technology and culture may change, people don’t.

But I digress (I told you I was a geek). This poem is part of Herbert’s vast body of work that places him squarely in the cannon of the Metaphysical Poets – John Donne perhaps the most famous of them all. These poets – loosely held together under this moniker, did not write all together in one particular style, but what connects them is a particular use of nature as metaphor, mystical sensibilities, and a particular intelligence and cleverness that some contemporaries (and subsequent critics such as Samuel Johnson – the guy who wrote a dictionary) found untenable.

And yet, the poetry lives – beautifully, I might add. Enough trivia – let’s get to it:

Come, my way, my truth, my life:
such a way as gives us breath,
such a truth as ends all strife,
such a life as killeth death.

Come, my light, my feast, my strength:
such a light as shows a feast,
such a feast as mends in length,
such a strength as makes a guest.

Come, my joy, my love, my heart:
such a joy as none can move,
such a love as none can part,
such a heart as joys in love.

This is, at its heart, a meditation on John 14:6 – “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Yet it speaks beyond any one belief and to a greater call from the Spirit of Life that we can all find truth, strength, joy, love. Come, Herbert asks of us. If we come to that which we call a higher power, we will know.

Beautiful.

And…beautifully set to a tune by Ralph Vaughan Williams as part of a piece called Five Mystical Songs, all based on Herbert poems. Each one is simply gorgeous and perfectly matched to Herbert’s lush poetry. I recommend taking the 20 minutes to listen.

Clearly, I love this one. And on a day when we say goodbye to one year and hello to a new, very uncertain one, it’s good to remember to come home to love.

Come.

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Here is another beautiful prayer – and when I first read the lyrics, I thought “why do I not use this more often?” And then I sang it.

Now don’t get me wrong: I love the Tallis Canon. It’s particularly beautiful when done in three parts in a big echo-y chapel so that the bell tones resonate and last a few moments after the voices cease their singing. Plus, I’m a fan of 16th century English sacred music, especially since writing a paper on 16th century English sacred music for a class entitled Anglican Devotional Poetry and Literature 1550-1650, and having listened to and fallen in love with a fair bit of the music in the process. Yes, in case it wasn’t perfectly clear already, I am a geek.

My problem with the Tallis Canon for these 19th century lyrics by Matthew Arnold is that, once again, it doesn’t really fit. Here’s this soulful, contemplative lyric:

Calm soul of all things, make it mine
to feel, amid the city’s jar,
that there abides a peace of thine
I did not make, and cannot mar.

The will to neither strive nor cry,
the power to feel with others, give.
Calm, calm me more; nor let me die
before I have begun to live.

And it’s set to a reasonably jolly tune. Now don’t get me wrong, there are jollier tunes in the hymnal for sure, but this is meant to be a calm, meditative plea of the heart. This tune just doesn’t cut it for me.

What would I suggest in its place? Truth From Above – used in 289, Creative Love, Our Thanks We Give. That tune has a soulfulness that I think is called for here. It’s not quite as familiar, but it feels like the kind of thing we’d gather around candles at dusk to sing, or maybe hear wafting from within the cloister walls, or perhaps hauntingly sung by Lorena McKennitt or Enya.

I do know that I need this prayer today, despite sitting in the quiet of my sister’s house in a small Victorian village on this snowy Friday between the holidays. So much is jarring right now – and so I pray for the peace and calm, even if for a moment.

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The story goes that this is the last song the orchestra played as the Titanic was going down, that final prayer that we put things right because we’re surely going to die, and soon we’ll be nearer to God so we better pray now out of panic.

But English Unitarian poet Sarah Flower Adams wasn’t writing a last-ditch-effort prayer; she was writing a hymn inspired by Jacob’s dream:

He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder* set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. (Genesis 28:11-12, NRSV)

Now look at the lyrics:

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me;
still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
darkness be over me, my rest a stone;
yet in my dreams I’d be nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

There let the way appear steps unto heaven;
all that thou sendest me in mercy given;
angels to beckon me nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Then, with my waking thoughts bright with thy praise,
out of my stony griefs Bethel I’ll raise;
so by my woes to be nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Or if on joyful wing cleaving the sky,
sun, moon, and stars forgot, upwards I fly,
still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Do you see it? Don’t let the cross get in the way – because otherwise, it’s all there: the stone for a pillow, steps unto heaven, angels, the founding of Bethel, etc.  This is the moment for Jacob: taking off for the hills, questions swirling and seeking answers – and God saying “let me show you this is not in vain – I shall call you ‘he who wrestles with God’: Israel.”

This telling of Jacob’s dream is a prayer for a connection, for fulfillment of a quest, for seeking and seeing. Despite all the hardships and wandering, I’ll go out and sing praises and pray for enlightenment. All of my wrestling and struggling is not for naught; rather, it keeps me engaged. As I release that which has caused me pain, I will be closer to that which I seek.

It’s still not a hymn for every congregation or for every day, and too many will think still of this scene from Titanic, but framed as part of our own call to question our answers and grow always closer into harmony with the Divine and each other, this is a perfect hymn.

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Now this one really is a prayer.

In fact, Jacqui James points out in Between the Lines that the incredible Shelley Denham wrote this as a prayer. And called the tune Prayer.

And wow, what a prayer. It is gentle to self even as it calls for strength. It is a quiet prayer of preparation, of focus and stillness. This is the song we should be singing every morning, not just an occasional Sunday or a random Wednesday. I don’t have a lot to say because it already says so much – it is beautifully crafted and beautiful to sing and carries our prayer on its gentle melody.

Blessed Spirit of my life, give me strength through stress and strife;
help me live with dignity; let me know serenity.
Fill me with a vision, clear my mind of fear and confusion.
When my thoughts flow restlessly, let peace find a home in me.

Spirit of great mystery, hear the still, small voice in me.
Help me live my wordless creed as I comfort those in need.
Fill me with compassion, be the source of my intuition.
Then, when life is done for me, let love be my legacy.

Amen.

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It’s a song for our time, this one.

Now it sits in the middle of the mystical and meditation section, but it’s really a fight song, a reminder that we have to keep getting up off the mat, to always be open, to revel in that which brings us joy but not forget that there is work to be done so that all may feel joy.

Although this life is but a wraith,
although we know not what we use,
although we grope with little faith,
give me the heart to fight and lose.

Open my ears to music,
let me thrill with spring’s first flutes and drums —
but never let me dare forget
the bitter ballads of the slums.

Ever insurgent let me be,
make me more daring than devout;
from sleek contentment keep me free,
and fill me with a buoyant doubt.

From compromise and things half-done,
keep me, with stern and stubborn pride;
and when, at last, the fight is won,
O, keep me still unsatisfied.

I just wish the tune kept me satisfied — I think this is another case where struggling with an unfamiliar tune obscures the power of the lyrics. The tune may be familiar to others, but I plunked through, having found no recordings of it (Small Church Music has this one with a licensee that isn’t valid in the US), but it wasn’t clicking for me. To get full effect, I confess I sang it to O Waly Waly, which seemed an appropriate substitution. Once I did that, I felt the strength and resolve of these lyrics by Louis Untermeyer, who also wrote the equally compelling May Nothing Evil Cross This Door. As a pair, these two hymns – while not written by a Unitarian Universalist – seem to embody much of who we are and what we want to be.

This is not a quiet prayer. This is a reminder to our souls to answer faith’s call to action. And more, it’s a reminder that the work may actually never really be done:  “when at last the fight is won, O keep me still unsatisfied.”

In other words, stay woke.