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Two new rules today, because the thing that makes UUs go “huh” should be the theology:

  1. Hymns should avoid using lyrics that have an ABBA rhyme scheme.
  2. Hymns should never end in words most people have to look up.

Just look at these lyrics as a poem, which is how they started. Not bad, really. Very nature-oriented, and I’m sure that in the early 1990s, it was appealing to have more nature-based hymns in the hymnal, especially with the adoption of the seventh principle and sixth source. I mean, it’s not a great poem, but it’s definitely an autumn poem.

Now light is less; noon skies are wide and deep;
the ravages of wind and rain are healed.
The haze of harvest drifts along the field
until clear eyes put on the look of sleep.

The garden spider weaves a silken pear
to keep inclement weather from its young.
Straight from the oak, the gossamer is hung.
At dusk our slow breath thickens on the air.

Lost hues of birds the trees take as their own.
Long since, bronze wheat was gathered into sheaves.
The walker trudges ankle deep in leaves;
the feather of the milkweed flutters down.

The shoots of spring have mellowed with the year.
Buds, long unsealed, obscure the narrow lane.
The blood slows trance-like in the altered vein;
our vernal wisdom moves through ripe to sere.

But now, let’s look at my new rules.

In poetry, internal rhyme and bracketed rhyming structures work well. Rhyme speaks volumes in terms of the way a piece is read and the reflective nature of the words in the rhyme – as well as a lot more stuff professors of poetry and Stephen Fry can tell you. But a poem read is not the same as a poem sung, and different rules apply. Sure, there is free verse in lyrics – “Thank U” by Alanis Morrisette for some reason just came to mind as a good example of free-verse lyric. But putting that aside, if you’re going to use bracketed rhyming schemes or free verse as lyrics, the tune should support it, not make you think ‘that didn’t end right.’  Maybe I’m biased – but I know I’m more comfortable in a congregational singing situation if the rhyming isn’t spread so far apart – an AABB or ABAB scheme just feels more…finished? Hymns aren’t intended to be masterpieces (just kidding, Jason) – they are supposed to move us and support the work of the worship event. The verses of this lyric don’t sing – they thud to a close.

I suspect you already know where I’m going with Rule Two, but let’s talk about it. Now, I am an educated woman. I am well read. I have a reasonably large vocabulary. And if the word ‘sere’ is a mystery to me, it is more than likely a mystery to many. This isn’t a ‘oh, whine, I had to look up a word’ comment where I am just being picky and you’ll come back at me with words I use that others don’t know. This is about singing hymns together, and getting a feeling of whatever it is the hymn is supposed to evoke. In this case, I assume it’s a connection to the deep autumn (although I was already thinking about how little actually happens in this hymn before I hit the last verse). But then you hit “sere” – and unless you’re one of the fourteen people who still use the word, you stop, think ‘I wonder what that word means’ and even if you try to suss it out from context, it’s difficult to know whether we’re talking a word that means overripe, spoiled, or turned to seed. As it happens, ‘sere’ means ‘without moisture’ – which I might have gotten to eventually, but then would have missed the next five or ten minutes of the service. Add in the couple of minutes everyone spent wondering if they’d sung the lyrics wrong because of the rhyming structure, and you might as well not have anything of any import coming up after it, because no one will pay attention, and soon you will be reconsidering your choice to use this hymn at all, and then remembering that you could have gone into publishing but no, you had to become a minister, and now look what’s happened.

It’s too bad, really, that this piece doesn’t work. I love this tune (Sursum Corda) – it’s very Gregorian chant to me, and it has a simple reverence I appreciate. It’s appropriate that it would be paired with a nature-focused lyric. Just not this one.

Thud.

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I am a sucker for the old Southern Harmony tunes – especially the ones in minor keys, which feel like Appalachia to me.

For the record, I am not from Appalachia nor have I never lived in Appalachia. But for some reason, that music – whether it’s these hymn tunes, or the bluegrass that sprung up from the same place – connects to something in me. I oddly feel the same way with music from the Jewish diaspora – another culture I have no direct connection to but whose music resonates in me. And it’s not just music to listen to; rather, I am more connected when I sing it, like it comes out of something deeper inside me when I sing.

Maybe it’s the minor keys. Maybe it’s the flow of melody. Maybe it’s the sense of awe, mystery, and wonder that shows up in the lyrics paired with these tunes…

I walk the unfrequented road with open eye and ear;
I watch afield the farmer load the bounty of the year.

I filch the fruit of no one’s toil — no trespasser am I —
and yet I reap from every soil and from the boundless sky.

I gather where I did not sow, and bend the mystic sheaf,
the amber air, the river’s flow, the rustle of the leaf.

A beauty springtime never knew haunts all the quiet ways,
and sweeter shines the landscape through its veil of autumn haze.

I face the hills, the streams, the wood, and feel with all akin;
my heart expands; their fortitude and peace and joy flow in.

These lyrics hold a mystery. Unlike yesterday’s, which felt like nothing moved, this has a bit of a storyline, a character examination, a connection between narrator, earth, and mystery.

This is a beauty – a perfect hymn for a stark post-Thanksgiving morning.

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Huh – it’s autumn and I am singing an autumn hymn? That’s not bound to happen very often.

If only I liked it more.

I actually got a little excited to sing an autumn hymn on this Thanksgiving day. And then I sang it, and while I was unimpressed by the lyrics (I’ll get to that), I found myself connecting to memories because of the tune.

It’s a lullaby – fairly simple to sing, and quite familiar. As I started to sing, I was transported back to my bedroom in our farmhouse on Taborton Mountain – the northernmost mountain of the Taconic range, which help make the Hudson Valley a valley. Mom would come into my room when I had climbed into bed and sing lullabies. There must have been a dozen or more that she sang, in a deep alto voice. At some point in the 1970s she recorded them onto a cassette tape – but it got lost, or broken, or taped over, and so I don’t have those songs anymore. But I do remember many of them, including this soft tune (Cradle Song).

The lyrics to this hymn are not the lullaby lyrics – they are instead an unremarkable ode to the turning of the year.

In sweet fields of autumn the gold grain is falling,
the white clouds drift lonely, the wild swan is calling.
Alas for the daisies, the tall fern and grasses,
when wind-sweep and rainfall fill lowlands and passes.

The snows of December shall fill windy hollow;
the bleak rain trails after, the March wind shall follow.
The deer through the valleys leave print of their going;
and diamonds of sleet mark the ridges of snowing.

The stillness of death shall stoop over the water,
the plover sweep low where the pale streamlets falter;
but deep in the earth clod the black seed is living;
when spring sounds her bugles for rousing and giving.

To be honest, I don’t know when I would ever use this hymn in worship. The lullaby tune feels out of place for morning worship, and the lyrics don’t move worship along. They’re like a set piece in a musical – think “A Bushel and a Peck” from Guys and Dolls: Adelaide sings it on stage, as she’s a performer. The song is cute and features this great secondary character (who actually has some great songs and lines elsewhere in the show), but nothing changes because she sang this – only time has progressed. We learn nothing about character, plot, motives.

Similarly, in my musical theatre theory of worship (one of many frames I like to think about worship through), nothing moves forward here. It’s an ‘oh, look, the seasons change and we’re going to remind ourselves of this fact’ piece – there is, for me, no sense that hearts, minds, or spirits are changed or moved or even really affected by this. They’re more likely to be moved by a memory of the tune than inspired by the lyric.

And now, I expect this will be a favorite of folks I adore and admire, and once again I’ve stepped into the breach and an argument will ensue. Hopefully about the hymn, not about Guys and Dolls, which is an incredibly well-crafted musical, even if Brando did kinda screw up “Luck Be a Lady” in the movie version.

Anyway, I digress. Despite my not really liking this one, I’m dwelling in lots of good memories today, and that’s not a terrible consequence of this practice.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

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Finally – a hymn about the feminine divine.

I’m not surprised these lyrics are by the Rev. Dr. Kendyl Gibbons – I love her writing and have used her words often in services, including her wonderful piece on the “love is patient, love is kind” passage from I Corinthians 13, which I use in my Share the Love service.

But I digress. Gibbons offers us an image of the feminine divine that is (gasp!) not just motherhood! Halleluiah! The heavens opened and the angels sang, “it’s about freaking time!”

I say this, because over and over we have “mother God” or “mother spirit” or other paeans to women couched in motherhood. I am grateful for the framing of women and the feminine divine in many aspects – include the aspect of justice seeker.

Lady of the seasons’ laughter, in the summer’s warmth be near;
when the winter follows after, teach our spirits not to fear.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning year.

Sister of the evening starlight, in the falling shadows stay
here among us till the far light of tomorrow’s dawning ray.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning day.

Mother of the generations, in whose love all life is worth
everlasting celebrations, bring our labors safe to birth.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning earth.

Goddess of all times’ progression, stand with us when we engage
hands and hearts to end oppression, writing history’s fairer page.
Hold us in your steady mercy, Lady of the turning age.

This hymn works for me today, especially, when I find myself worn down by men, mansplaining, misogyny, and madness. I don’t want to be told how to feel, how things I know already should be, how I shouldn’t make noises or make waves, or just this constant, pervasive insistence that men are more important. I’m worn down. I’m tired. I’m angry. And thus, Gibbons’ call to the Goddess to “stand with us when we engage hands and hearts to end oppression” is a reminder of all the women throughout history who have made a difference in everyone’s lives – and who continue, daily, to answer the call for justice for all, not just women. (Note to self: this would make a great Women’s History Month sermon.)

Two more things, and then I’ll go, because I’m at my sister’s for the holiday and there’s cranberry sauce to be made:

First, the tune. It’s familiar to me, but not because of singing this particular hymn in our congregations. I am fairly certain we sang it a few times in chapel at Union, but I can’t seem to remember what lyrics we used – certainly they were more Christian ones. I was surprised when I picked it up, realizing that while the hymn was unfamiliar, the tune certainly was.

Second, the format: it’s been bugging me that when this publishes to Facebook and email, you get my opening line, and then the lyrics all in an unformatted box. I love having the lyrics at the top for reference, but I think having my words up top is more important, so I’ll try putting the lyrics in the middle of the page. Let me know what you think – it’s not like I don’t still have over a year to tweak this further…

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An ode to the space between.

When darkness nears and embers die,
the wind in trees a distant sigh,
the end of day like a lover’s voice nearby.

The night draws close, a fond embrace;
the heart then slows its frantic pace,
and fear drifts off as a calm breath takes its place.

The cradle of a velvet wing,
it holds us in its gentle swing,
and peace slips in with the songs our dreams will sing.

The end of day, the passing year,
the rush of time need cause no fear,
we’ll love the night and its myst’ry now so near.

I love a 5/4 time signature*. To me, there is a touch of the melancholy in 5/4 – not quite so regular as common time, not quite so lilting as a waltz. Something languid and rushing all at once. Something not quite calm, something not quite energized. The 5/4 time signature lives in the paradox. It lives in the space between, much like the twilight the lyrics describe.

Now one brief quibble: For the most part, this hymn is set there, and it works. But to make the final line of each verse work correctly, there’s a 4/4 measure, then a 7/4, and then we’re back to our mysterious 5/4. To be honest, that shift makes it hard to sing – baffling to many congregations, I suspect. But it does work, in the scope of the piece.

But then the lyrics: They’re laden with the paradox of twilight, thus meaning that the lyrics and the music fit. If this had been set to a more regular tune, it would maybe be easier to sing but it wouldn’t evoke the mystery and melancholy that the lyrics hold. As it is set, the secrets of the words come forth and leaves their impressions on the heart.

Well met.

 

—

*Other songs in 5/4 include “Everything’s Alright” (Jesus Christ Superstar) and “Nothing Like You’ve Ever Known” (Song and Dance) by Andrew Lloyd Webber, the “Theme from Mission Impossible” by Lalo Schifrin, “Seven Days” by Sting, and of course “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck.

 

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That time I kept forgetting to sing.

Stillness reigns, the winds are sleeping. All the world is bent on keeping
tryst with night, whose wings are sweeping from the west each ray of light.

Dusk, a soft and silken cover, over all is seen to hover
in its readiness to cover all the drowsy world, good night.

Those who labored long, untiring, hail this time of rest desiring,
strength renewed through sweet retiring, welcome thoughts of peaceful night.

And through spaces real or seeming find the Eden of their dreaming,
soar to starry ways, redeeming hours of toil and pain, good night.

If a tune is unfamiliar (or even if it is vaguely familiar), I will sometimes visit the site Small Church Music to see if the tune is there, so that instead of plunking out notes on my little keyboard app, or just making it up, I can actually hear and learn the tune. Usually, there are a variety of accompaniments for a tune – piano, a band, and organ, and maybe some combination. I probably could have figured this one out fairly easily, but I opted for the easy way so I could focus on lyrics, as has been my wont lately.

Everything started off just fine. I found the tune and decided to play the organ version. I start singing: “Stillness reigns, the winds…” mm…I like this accompaniment. And how neatly the harmonies work. Oh. I’m not singing! “….ray of light.”

Next verse: “Dusk, a…” Oh, he’s changed it up. Neat. This works. It’s cheery, but not too schmaltzy. I wonder how this will work as a vespers tune. Is it really? What does it say?

Oh! Third verse…wow, I love this variation. Nicely played. It would be nice to have an organ sometimes. Oh crap, I’m not singing. “…welcome thoughts of peaceful night.”

Fourth verse: So strong, culminating in Eden! That works. Singing? What singing?

So yeah. That happened.

And I considered playing it again, singing it earnestly this time. But then I thought, this was my experience today – why change it? The tune’s in my head, so I’ll be humming it for a while – I’m humming it now. And maybe that’s all that’s necessary on a day like today, when my head is stuffy and the post-preaching exhaustion lingers and winter makes its first appearance.

Time for a little stillness to reign before the flurry of the holiday.

 

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Wherein I fangirl a bit over a 19th century Unitarian minister and poet.

Again, as evening’s shadow falls, we gather in these hallowed walls;
and vesper hymn and vesper prayer rise mingling on the holy air.

May struggling hearts that seek release here find the rest of God’s own peace:
and, strengthened here by hymn and prayer, lay down the burden and the care.

Life’s tumult we must meet again; we cannot at the shrine remain;
but in the spirit’s secret cell may hymn and prayer forever dwell.

This is a gorgeous lyric, set to a lovely tune. It makes me again wish that I had the ability right now to hold vespers services.

But more than that, what I love about this lyric is the reality of it – no lofty ‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world’, no artificial perfection. No, it says, life sucks, but the singing and praying will help make it suck less so.

As I thought about the lyric, and noted that it was written by Samuel Longfellow, I realized that this is not the first time I’ve felt moved by his words. I noted in the post for O Life That Maketh All Things New that I felt better after singing the hymn, with its hopeful aspiration. And in the post for God of the Earth, The Sky, the Sea, that “I love this lyric – it’s grounding for me and harkens to something deep and primordial, something wholly of creation.” And now, today, I find comfort in lyrics like “may struggling hearts that seek release” and “life’s tumult we must meet again, we cannot at the shrine remain”… a sense that Longfellow isn’t willing to gloss over anything, but still recognizes that faith, and song, and prayer might be a reminder of our goodness and strength.

If ever there’s a message we need today, it’s this. It still feels in many ways like the world has crashed down around us… and yet our compulsion is still to gather in prayer, to lay down our burdens, to find strength. Our congregations were full or overflowing last week because of this compulsion. And Longfellow’s 150-or-so-year-old lyric not only speaks to this present moment, but reminds us that it’s a constant part of the human condition and human compulsion.

There doesn’t appear to be a lot known about him (although to be fair, I only just did a quick google search). And of course he fades under the light of his much more famous brother Henry. But I think that’s a shame, because our man Sam gets it. He speaks truth to our hearts. And he features prominently in our hymnal – we sing nine hymns with his lyrics. It’s becoming clear now why.

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More signs of life returning?

Now on land and sea descending, brings the night its peace profound;
let our vesper hymn be blending with the holy calm around.

(Chorus)
Jubilate! Jubilate! Jubilate! Amen.
Jubilate! Jubilate! Jubilate! Amen.

Soon as dies the sunset glory, stars of heav’n shine out above,
telling still the ancient story — their Creator’s changeless love. (Chorus)

Now, our wants and burdens leaving, to the Care that cares for all,
cease we fearing, cease we grieving; quietly our burdens fall. (Chorus)

As the darkness deepens o’er us, lo, eternal stars arise;
hope and faith and love rise glorious, shining in the spirit’s skies. (Chorus)

My first thought was “huh, this is an awfully cheerful song for an evening song.” But that thought soon passed as thought about a vespers service… I heard in my head the hymn sung by a choir, in a round, perhaps accompanied by a hand bell choir, echoing in a grand cathedral as day gives way to night. I longed for a space to hold such services with such performances. I added it to a mental checklist of worship experiences I wish to create for others – one of joy at a day’s work well done, with the ringing of bells and voices weaving together in joy.

My next thought was “wow, there’s a little bit of your creative spark returning.”

A few days ago, I attended a webinar led by my friend the Reverend Julie Taylor, the president of the UU Trauma Response Ministry (a group I hold dear to my heart, having availed myself of their services after a tragic accident a decade ago). In it, Julie talked about how our physiological response to traumatic events swings us into feeling over thinking, and in fact, that is part of why it feels abnormal; even when we feel strong emotion normally, our cognitive functioning far outweighs our emotional functioning. Julie suggested to us to find ways to get the thinking back. I didn’t really know what tasks to put on that side of the ledger… but I realize now that creating is one of those ways. And imagining a vespers service in a big space with a big musical presence and a spirit of jubilance – that’s a creative thing that is more thinking than feeling, even if the feelings are what propelled me.

I’m seeing glimmers now of my Self returning.

That feels like a bit of a relief.

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“I have no response to that.”

— Angelica, Joe Versus the Volcano

Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh,
shadows of the evening steal across the sky.

Now the leafless landscape settles in repose,
waiting for the quiet of the winter snows.

Now as twilight gathers let us pause and hear
all the slowing pulsebeats of the waning year.

May the season’s rhythms, slow and strong and deep,
soothe the mind and spirit, lulling us to sleep.

Sleep until the rising of another spring
keeps the ancient promise fall and winter bring.

Huh. So…

I suppose it’s right for the season, but my only real thought is it feels like something to be sung in welcome for a Yuletide vespers.

And I sit here really having not much more to say today. I didn’t like or hate it, I didn’t find it moving or annoying, the tune just is. I really feel like one of Meg Ryan’s characters (she plays three) in Joe Versus the Volcano (which you should watch). Truly, I have no response to this hymn.

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New rule: there should be no time signature changes in the middle of a hymn you are trying to learn by sight before you’ve had your coffee.

Now while the day in trailing splendor gives way to glories of the night,
thanksgiving to thy name we render, O God of darkness and of light.
Each day from thee we have our being, in all this wondrous order set;
thine omnipresence blinds our seeing, and in thy gifts we thee forget.

Touch thou our eyes, their blindness healing, till all this common earth and air
to our illumined sight and feeling thy glory and thyself declare;
till storied marvel, sign, and token, all pale before the nearer thought
of such vast miracles unbroken from hour to hour around us brought.

Lord have mercy.

Here I was, excited about getting into evening songs (although they are probably as cheery as the morning ones, if this first is any indication). And I tried to sing it, I did. It’s got a bit more of a medieval chant feel to it at the start, barreling in with eighth notes in a pattern that runs up and down a narrow band of notes. Once you get that, it’s not hard.

Except suddenly there’s a change from 3/4 to 4/4, and some syncopation, and then we are back to normal for the final line.

And if you are leaning the hymn by sight, before coffee, that third phrase will kill ya. I pulled out the tiny keyboard app on my phone to plunk out the notes. Then I set my metronome app to 3/4 so I could count out the section. Which always came out wrong. Because at seven in the morning, sitting alone in my kitchen while the lifeblood of existence was still brewing in the coffeemaker, I didn’t see the two-bar shift to 4/4 time. Maybe I was too distracted by the sudden upper register singing – two phrases in a normal singing range and suddenly we’re holding up the sky for three beats – or the syncopation on odd lyrics. But this phrase – without a music professional nearby to help a person out – makes this frustrating at best.

Really, the only thing I am getting out of it is a slight return of my wit – which, to be honest, has been sorely missed this past week.

So maybe that’s it’s purpose today. To give me something inconsequential to snark about, because it’s too difficult to find anything of consequence funny right now.

Lord have mercy.