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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.

 

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It’s time for everybody’s favorite new game, “Who Will Love This Hymn I Hate” – this week, starring lyricist Joseph Cotter and composer Frederich Filitz!

I wish I could make sense of this one.  No, seriously. I mean, I get that the lyrics are a rain song, and thus appropriate for a section called The World of Nature. I also get that we want to include voices beyond white men, and thus the hymn led me to learn about Joseph Cotter, Jr, who was an African American playwright and poet who died of tuberculosis at age 24.

But seriously – this too, too simple German tune? I found only one recording of it here, tied to a long washed-in-the-blood hymn. It’s really a boring tune, though, and it’s bad enough we sing it in 4 verses – imagine singing the eight in the one I linked too!

MAYBE this tune sounds okay in a round, but certainly not in a song about dry earth and ancient (I assume native American) drums.

Everything just seems wrong about this. And it makes me realize how much we had yet to do as a movement around cultural appropriation.

On the dusty earth drum beats the falling rain;
now a whispered murmur, now a louder strain.

Slender, silvery drumsticks on an ancient drum
beat the mellow music bidding life to come.

Chords of life awakened, notes of greening spring,
rise and fall triumphant over everything.

Slender, silvery drumsticks beat the long tattoo —
God, the Great Musician, calling life anew.

Now to make the piece even vaguely palatable for singing (because I couldn’t get to the second verse – lord help me I just couldn’t make it with this tune), I went hunting for another 6.5.6.5 tune, and I found this one that seems to make this feel less frivolous.

But really, this just doesn’t work. I am not moved. I am not changed. If anything, I’m a little annoyed, and this is not how you want to do spiritual practice. Time to go back and sing something I love, like What Wondrous Love, if only to bring some balm to my soul on this cold morning.

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Man oh man. Robert Frost can really bring it, can’t he?

There’s a reason he is one of the 20th century’s most celebrated poets – while this is not as famous as “The Wall” or “The Road Less Traveled” or “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” this poem too had impact and depth and meaning.

It’s almost a shame that it’s set to a hymn tune.

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today,
and give us not to think so far away
as the uncertain harvest; keep us here
all simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white
like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
and make us happy in the happy bees,
the swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
that suddenly above the bees is heard,
the meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
and off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
the which it is reserved for God above
to sanctify to what far ends he will,
but which it only needs that we fulfill.

Now why on earth would I say that? Especially when it’s a lovely tune, one I love, that has its own tinge of melancholy (which is apparently something I am drawn to). For the record: I adore the Coolidge tune.

However: what I know about hymn singing is that the song moves right along. Hymns don’t meander, so we don’t get a chance to ponder the lyrics we’re singing, that is even if we notice them at all (I am convinced that while the lyrics are important, if a singer is learning the tune, the lyrics are just syllables, and the meaning goes right by). And these lyrics especially beg to be noticed.

And herein lies the problem – this poem is written in four equal verses, making it easy to set to a hymn tune. But I wish it wasn’t, because there is a masterful build in the poem that takes us into nature, deeper and deeper, and then POW! “For this is love, and nothing else is love.” We don’t need quite yet to move on to the next powerful phrase of the verse, we need to sit with that for a bit. Ponder. Consider the path Frost has created for us. Lean into the meaning and depth. Only then can we entertain the rest of the verse, which is as powerful as the turn phrase at the top of this verse.

This isn’t to say I wouldn’t use it – I probably would. But I am grateful today for the chance to ponder the poem.

 

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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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Welcome to today’s edition of Hymn By Hymn, wherein Kimberley quibbles with the hymnal editors.

God of the earth, the sky, the sea,
maker of all above, below,
creation lives and moves in you;
your present life through all does flow.

Your love is in the sunshine’s glow,
your life is in the quick’ning air;
when lightnings flash and storm-winds blow,
there is your power, your law is there.

We feel your calm at evening’s hour,
your grandeur in the march of night;
and when the morning breaks in power,
we hear your word, “Let there be light.”

But higher far, and far more clear,
you in our spirit we behold;
your image and yourself are there —
indwelling God, proclaimed of old.

This has the potential to be such a terrific hymn – Longfellow’s lyrics are a wonderful reflection of the immanent God, that divine energy living in everything. Longfellow captures the living pulse that says God is in everything and that the love of this indwelling God is present, always, for all of us.

And then the editors screw up the rhyme pattern in the first freaking verse:

God of the earth, the sky, the sea,
maker of all above, below,
creation lives and moves in you

…YOU? Really? The original, of course, and as expected, is “thee.” And it isn’t like the word isn’t used in STLT – it appears 64 times – five times so far in the hymns we’ve just sung, and we’re only up to #25! Surely one more “thee” would not have hurt. Instead it hurts the ear and feels unnatural, and takes us out of the song.

And while we’re talking about being taken out, the hymn tune that’s being used here – Duke Street – is simply the wrong match. Yes, the meter matches (L.M, or Long Meter – a common meter of four lines of eight). But even if you reject (as our editors do) the commonly used tune St. Catherine (along with typical alternate Pater Ominum) – which isn’t a bad thing, as both tunes feel terribly out of date and a bit hokey – the choice of Duke Street feels incongruent. And it isn’t like there aren’t more LM tunes to choose from – there are 30.

Now admittedly, not all of the 30 would work either, and that’s fine (One More Step is in this grouping, for example). This is how hymnody works – multiple tunes in the same meter that have different emphases, different moods, different tempos. Ultimately, you want a tune that reflects and enhances the lyrics.

And this is where it is subjective, of course. (The change from “thee” to “you” was just silly.) Duke Street, the tune used in STLT, is somewhat strident. It’s a proclamation tune. And when we use it later in Unto Thy Temple, Lord We Come, it makes sense – we’re proclaiming our intention. But here, in this gorgeous language reflecting nature and creation and the indwelling God? Strident makes no sense.  Instead, I’d use Danby (also used for Let All the Beauty We Have Known and Let Christmas Come), or even Gift of Love (Though I May Speak with Greatest Fire) for a more folksy feel. These settings are more reflective, more mystical, more contemplative. And to me, there is Wonder in Longfellow’s lyric, and thus there should be Wonder in our tune.

I love this lyric – it’s grounding for me and harkens to something deep and primordial, something wholly of creation. I will sing it to a different tune, and I will sing “thee” – as Longfellow intended.

And thus endeth the quibbling.

 

 

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What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul,
what wondrous love is this, O my soul?
What wondrous love is this that brings my heart such bliss,
and takes away the pain of my soul, of my soul,
and takes away the pain of my soul.

When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down,
when I was sinking down, sinking down,
when I was sinking down beneath my sorrows ground,
friends to me gather’d round, O my soul, O my soul,
friends to me gather’d round, O my soul.

To love and to all friends I will sing, I will sing,
to love and to all friends I will sing.
To love and to all friends who pain and sorrow mend,
with thanks unto the end I will sing, I will sing,
with thanks unto the end I will sing.

Sometimes the written music is just a suggestion.

In our hymnal, this hymn, based of course on a folk tune collected in The Southern Harmony, is set in 2/2 time – fairly square but not march-like. And I have liked it fine, admiring of the elegant rewritten lyrics to take the focus off “the thorny crown” and place it on “friends to me gathered ’round.” It is more personal, hold me – and many in our faith – more deeply.

But in the spring of 2015, in searching for a recording of this hymn (for reasons long forgotten now), I stumbled across Christian singer Chelsea Moon’s rendition – accompanied by two guitars (the Franz Brothers) – and performed in 6/8 time. Now technically, 6/8 is just a tripled breakdown of 2/2, but it’s remarkably different, both in tone, and ultimately in meaning.

Let’s give it a listen (and know that the lyrics are the original in both). First, here’s the song in 2/2 time (in a gorgeous choral arrangement performed by the St. Olaf Choir):

And now, Chelsea Moon’s version:

Both beautiful, but for me, the rolling 6/8 connects to a natural internal pulse that feels as though it comes from and through my body, connected directly to my heart and soul.

I have since sung this a capella, in a 6/8 time signature, in a handful of settings, and each time it has felt more personal to me. And I realize this, as I sing it over and over, even as I write this reflection: while there are many songs that move me deeply, this one – this one beautiful song, with our words of friendship and connection –  is my spirit’s song, my heart’s cry, my soul’s comfort…

To all my friends… with thanks unto the end, I will sing.

I will sing.

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O God of stars and sunlight, whose wind lifts up a bird,
in marching wave and leaf-fall we hear thy patient word.
The color of thy seasons goes gold across the land:
by green upon the treetops we know thy moving hand.

O God of cloud and mountain, whose rain on rock is art,
thy plan and care and meaning renew the head and heart.
Thy word and color spoken, thy summer noons and showers —
by these and by thy dayshine, we know thy world is ours.

O God of root and shading of boughs above our head,
we breathe in thy long breathing, our spirit spirited.
We walk beneath thy blessing, thy seasons, and thy way,
O God of stars and sunlight, O God of night and day.

Another day, another unfamiliar hymn. This time, the tune (Bremen) is, if not actually a song I have sung, at least a song like many other songs I have sung; it’s of that early 18th century German formulaic, rather easily anticipated with one brief surprise hymn tune. Which of course, makes it easy to sing.

I think sometimes we forget the value of easy, seemingly familiar tunes, because they’re not wildly interesting. And I think it’s why some of the more modern hymns might fail – they are looking for interest, not easy singability. Musical interest is important – we don’t want to fall asleep while singing; but familiar musical patterns are easier for non-musicians to get the hang of.  It’s why zipper songs like Come and Go With Me and There Is More Love Somewhere work so well – the pattern, both of tune and lyric, are familiar to our Western bones and are easy to pick up.  Anyway – a long way to go to say this isn’t a spectacular tune but a serviceable one for this lyric, if not the most inspired match. (I’d have gone for Lancaster myself – the tune of O Day of Light and Gladness. But that’s me.)

This is a soaring lyric – by poet John Holmes (who, by the way, was a teacher of Ann Sexton). It is a beautiful paean to the Immanent God, the God in all things, in and above all the earth. “O God of cloud and mountain, whose rain on rock is art” – wow. How can we not want to sing praises to this God, even if we don’t believe in God? To sing to the poetry and awesomeness of the planet – to sing praise to stars and sunlight, night and day – is to sing about ourselves and all that is beyond ourselves.

A celebration of life, indeed. And one we need, in these tumultuous, trying days. It’s easy for us to read the news and think about the possibilities and become forlorn, full of world weariness and ennui. This hymn – this glorious, soaring praise for this glorious planet – is a balm to our souls.

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Immortal love, forever full, forever flowing free,
forever shared, forever whole, a never-ending sea!

Our outward lips confess the name all other names above;
but love alone knows whence it came and comprehendeth love.

Blow, winds of love, awake and blow the mists of hate away;
sing out, O Truth divine, and tell how wide and far we stray.

The letter fails, the systems fall, and every symbol wanes;
the Spirit overseeing all, Eternal Love, remains.

I finished singing this hymn and thought ‘the tune betrays the lyric.’

This is a powerful lyric – “blow the mists of hate away”… “tell how far and wide we stray”… “the letter fails, the systems fall”… powerful words demanding we answer the call of Love and seek justice. We believe first in Love and the power of Love to make us agents of change, truth, justice, and compassion. This is a strong, time to show up, walk the talk, get woke and stay woke lyric. And one that reminds us that Love remains the constant – the one thing we can lean on, count on, avail ourselves of, learn from, embody.

And…it’s set to a light Irish air.

The truth is, I often overlook it when choosing hymns because I hadn’t dug deep into it before, had not realized the force that is Whittier’s words. “Immortal love, forever full”…okay, let’s remember you on Valentine’s Day…next.

But it is amazing. It deserves a better, stronger tune. Our own hymnal is limited – this tune, called St. Columba, is the only one in our hymnals with this meter (8.6.8.6) – yet there are at least 150 other tunes with this meter (according to the site Small Church Music). So what are we doing here? Why did the folks who set this tune in the first place think this was the right match?

It’s time to find a new tune – one that is commiserate with the bold call of Whittier’s words. One that propels us into action. One that reminds us what Love looks like when it is Lived.

Words by John Greenleaf Whittier, set to an Irish melody

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The world stands out on either side no wider than the heart is wide;
above the world is stretched the sky no higher than the soul is high.

The heart can push the sea and land so far away on either hand;
the soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through.

Hmm.

This is a hymn I have never sung, nor never heard.  The lyrics are amazing – let’s not kid ourselves: Edna St. Vincent Millay can write. The lyrics talk about the expansiveness of our souls, of God, and what I perceive as a challenge against the limits we try to put on our ideas of the divine. It’s a lush pair of couplets. That last line… so delicious: the SOUL can split the sky in two. It comes from us. We’re the only thing trying to hold it all in, but as Leonard Cohen taught us, ‘there’s a crack in everything – that’s how the light gets in.’ I wonder if Cohen had read Millay before writing that song. And I am led to wonder about the ways I try to hold it in, hold it all together, try to seal the cracks that my soul is yearning to open up.

Yes. The lyric is inspiring, beautiful, hopeful, lush.

The music is not so lush – at least not the melody, which is the only thing I can manage to play on the piano app on my iPad. I long for a Ralph Vaughn Williams kind of tune here – something with a bit of sentimentality, but maybe with a bit of simplicity.

I agree with Jason Shelton that no song is unsingable – and I did indeed sing it. But I didn’t feel it – there seemed to me no marriage of word and melody, and thus it was a chore, not a delight.

Alas.

Words by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Music by W. Fredrick Wooden

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May nothing evil cross this door,
and may ill fortune never pry about
these windows; may the roar
and rain go by.

By faith made strong, the rafters will
withstand the battering of the storm.
This hearth, though all the world grow chill,
will keep you warm.

Peace shall walk softly through these rooms,
touching our lips with holy wine,
till every casual corner blooms
into a shrine.

With laughter drown the raucous shout,
and, though these sheltering walls are thin,
may they be strong to keep hate out
and hold love in.

And so it begins – with a lilting 3/4 tune, which I have heard too many times played like a dirge. It’s full of strong sentiment, but it is a blessing, not a demand. It is a prayer, not a protest….although they are often the same thing.

My point, however, is that this opening hymn is a dance – a waltz, a welcoming, loving blessing to all of the spirits who enter: the book, the congregation, the faith, life itself.

Imagine if we greeted people at the door with a hand jive, then twirling them into our foyers, one-two-three, one-two-three to the ushers who lead them gently to seats and then dance off to meet the next willing, dance-filled congregants?

Imagine if the pianist choir cha-cha’d to the bench, hips gently propelling them to feel the rhythm of the beating hearts filling the room?

Imagine the choir doing the electric slide into the loft, rocking their souls soulfully into place?

Imagine the worship leaders entering with an energetic Charleston, weaving an energetic magic that catches fire?

Imagine the whole congregation moving and breathing in sync, ready to be together because their spirits already are engaged in the dance of welcome and blessing?

 

Words by Louis Untermeyer, music by Robert N. Quaile
Tune: Oldbridge