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Now this is an appreciation of beauty I can get behind.

And no, I’m not just saying this because I know lyricist Mark Belletini is reading… honest. I simply love the connection he makes between the beauty of the earth and the beauty of our own creativity, that we are all a part of creation and we are all creators.

The arching sky of morning glows like frescoes high in vaulted rows.
The ragged hills of greening spring like chorus masters bid us sing.

The colors of our contoured land no artist born could hue as grand,
but contours of the human heart sole groundings are for every art!

Whenever sounds the sacred sigh beneath this gable of the sky,
the forms of art and spirit blend, by craft and morn our hearts transcend.

Set to the Tallis Canon, it’s an easy piece to sing; and I find it sounds more like bells than voices when sung with care. It’s harder to sing a round with multiple verses, but I imagine it must sound lush and gorgeous done that way.

I’ve not much more to say – we’re on the penultimate day of Goldmine Youth Leadership School, and my energy is loooowww. My spirits are high (we have amazing youth) but I am more like a three-toed tree sloth than a human today, moving veeeeery slooooowly from moment to moment. I even sang this more slowly than usual, but perhaps that let me linger over the poetry.

Anyway. I like this a lot and wish I remembered to use it more.

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I’m just gonna say right up front that for all of my belief in beauty and its role in revealing truth and inspiring connection to Mystery, I dislike the premise of this hymn.

The premise – that loveliness costs, that the spiritual and inspirational are currency, that this entire piece is set in a capitalist metaphor – is just terrible in my mind. I get the compulsion to set poet Sara Teasdale’s  “Barter” to music, as it celebrates beauty of all sorts. But I hate her frame, and I wonder… given the title, and given the reflection some critics have made that her poetry, for all its lyricism, dealt in part with disillusionment… I wonder if there isn’t some cynicism here. Is there a cost? And is it all too high, is loveliness seemingly too rare?

Life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things,
blue waves whitened on a cliff, soaring fire that sways and sings,
and children’s faces looking up, holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell, as music, like a curve of gold,
scent of pine trees in the rain, eyes that love you, arms that hold,
and for your spirit’s still delight, holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness, to buy and never count the cost:
for one singing hour of peace count a year of strife well lost,
and for a breath of ecstasy give all you have been, or could be.

And I find myself in a space of wanting to dig deeper into the literary criticism and forget that this is a hymn, which I sang haltingly, which means others would too, which means no one would pay attention to the lyrics and have time to consider [what “one stinging hour of peace” means]* and why loveliness costs anything anyway.

So – as a hymn, not at all a fan.

As a poem, I’m intrigued because I am put off.

Or maybe I’m thinking too much.

*Edit: so… “stinging hour of peace” is a typo on my part – it’s “singing”. Whoops.

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Let’s not kid ourselves: Willa Cather could write.

This lyric, from a longer poem “I Sought the World in Winter” is a graceful meditation on the beauty of nature:

I sought the wood in summer when every twig was green;
the rudest boughs were tender, and buds were pink between.
Light-fingered aspens trembled in fitful sun and shade,
and daffodils were golden in every starry glade.

“How frail a thing is Beauty,” I said, “when every breath
she gives the vagrant summer but swifter woos her death.
For this the star dust troubles, for this have ages rolled:
to deck the wood for bridal and slay her with the cold.”

I sought the wood in winter when every leaf was dead;
behind the wind-whipped branches the winter sun was red.
The birches, white and slender, in breathless marble stood,
the brook, a white immortal, slept silent in the wood.

“How sure a thing is Beauty,” I cried. “No bolt can slay, nor wave
nor shock despoil her, nor ravishers dismay.
The granite hills are slighter, the sea more like to fail,
behind the rose the planet, the Law behind the veil.”

Gorgeous.

And yet, this one leaves me flat. And I think it’s the tune; it just doesn’t inspire or engage me at all. And maybe it’s my mood – I am halfway through this leadership school with 13 of the most incredible, engaged, passionate youth I’ve met, and they are so full of life, laughter, and inspiration – and their songs reflect their qualities. In comparison, this hymn is old, dull, and resigned.

Oh well. I’m sure this is a favorite of many. While it’s not on my Nope list, it’s not one I’m likely to reach for any time soon.

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Welcome to another edition of “Hymns Kimberley Would Use Too Often If Let Loose.”

I love this one. I love its inspiration, I love the joy, I love the celebration. And, not surprisingly, I love the tune too – another Ralph Vaughan Williams setting (Danby). It is lush and sweet.

Let all the beauty we have known illuminate our hearts and minds.
Rejoice in wonders daily shown, in faith and joy, and love that binds.

We celebrate with singing hearts the loveliness of sky and earth,
the inspiration of the arts, the miracle of ev’ry birth.

Life’s music and its poetry surround and bless us through our days.
For these we sing in harmony, together giving thanks and praise.

And it is most assuredly a part of my theology, and my ministry.

—

Today’s image is the gorgeous watercolor I bought for my 49th birthday from the talented Jordan Lynn Gribble. It hangs on my bedroom wall and is often the first thing I see in the morning.

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Another list song – must be Brian Wren.

And so it is. Now this is not to say his list is bad, necessarily, but It can get tiring pretty quickly.

And when it comes to Wren, there is always something – even in songs I like, like this one – that make me go “hmm” …

Love makes a bridge from heart to heart, and hand to hand.
Love finds a way when laws are blind, and freedom banned.

Love breaks the walls of language, gender, class, and age.
Love gives us wings to slip the bars of every cage.

Love lifts the hopes that force and fear have beaten down.
Love breaks the chains and gives us strength to stand our ground.

Love rings the bells of wanted birth and wedding day.
Love guides the hands that promise more than words can say.

Love makes a bridge that winds may shake, yet not destroy.
Love carries faith through life and death, to endless joy.

Did you spot it? In this case it’s the fourth verse, “love rings the bells of wanted birth.” That line falls sharply on my ear, breaking open my heart for all the births that were not wanted – do they not deserve the bells of love too? And because of that hard line, I find myself checking out of the final verse, which may be the best one of all.

Oh, Brian. This one is so, so close. Sigh.

Anyway, this is set to a tune by Gerald Wheeler that is surprisingly more complex than you’d think. It’s worth learning, as a five-verse hymn makes “sing 1, 2, and 5” an easy choice. but I recommend a strong song leader to help with some of the more intricate intervals.

All in all, not a bad one. I’ve used it before – but with care.

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One of the delights of being an active member and now religious professional in the Saint Lawrence District (upstate NY and part of Ontario) is getting to know Richard and Joyce Gilbert a little. They are so much a part of my story, in the way peanuts are a part of a Snickers bar – not a constant presence, but the nuggets of experience and wisdom are priceless. From Dick’s telling of how simple his fellowshipping process was (after completing seminary, he had dinner with denominational leaders. They talked, laughed, ate, and at the end, stood up and shook Dick’s hand, saying “welcome to fellowship.”) to learning about the founding of the UU Musicians Network over dinner with Joyce, to various interactions, workshops, and worship over the years. And many slim volumes of Dick’s meditations – edited by Joyce – sit on my shelf, inherited from Linda Hoddy, who bought some and inherited others from Charles Sapp.

One of the collections is called Thanks Be for These – named for a meditation from which this lyric is based. That Joyce is also credited suggests she helped set the words to a sweet Hungarian tune (Transylvania). And this song is sweet indeed:

Thanks be for these, life’s holy times,
moments of grief, days of delight;
triumph and failure intertwine,
shaping our vision of the right.

Thanks be for these, for birth and death;
life in between with meaning full;
holy becomes the quickened breath;
we celebrate life’s interval.

Thanks be for these, ennobling art,
images welcome to our sight;
music caressing ear and heart,
inviting us to loftier height.

Thanks be for these, who question why;
who noble motives do obey;
those who know how to live and die;
comrades who share this holy way.

Thanks be for these, we celebrate;
sing and rejoice, our trust declare;
press all our faith into our fate;
bless now the destiny we share.

Even if the Gilberts hadn’t written it, I would love this hymn. It’s such a loving prayer of gratitude for the wide ranging experiences of our lives. It’s setting in the tune is perfect – a tune that is joyful but tender. I use this maybe too often – most certainly at Thanksgiving, but also in other services.

If you don’t know it, please learn it. It’s one of my favorites.

And it always reminds me of the precious gift that is Richard and Joyce Gilbert. Thanks be for them, too.

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I wish…

I wish I felt better so I could really dig into this hymn.

I wish I had looked ahead and scheduled a Hymn-by-Hymn conversation with Suzanne Fast about this hymn.

I’ll just say that having had a conversation with Suzanne at General Assembly, I now understand how difficult this embracing our bodies without shaming our bodies for the ways they work, move, and look can be.

The pen is greater than the sword.
To wield a blade or write a word
we need the skill which hands accord.

A surgeon takes a knife to heal;
assassins do the same to kill.
Each acts according to their will.

I pick the cherries from a tree,
or break the branch and let it die.
For good or ill, my hands are free.

With fingers I can soothe a brow,
or make a fist and strike a blow,
kindness or cruelty bestow.

Then let us now this lesson see:
like life itself our hands can be
for evil used, or charity.

My analytical abilities continue to be put off by a flu that has settled into my shoulder, causing great pain. I’m on anti-virals and muscle relaxers to ease it out; they’re starting to work, but I am Flexeril-loopy.

Anyway – have at it: the song about assassins and hands.

At least it’s not a cankerworm?

—

Cool pen image via deviantart.net.

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The last thing I want to do is write a blog post about a song entitled “tradition held fast” on the morning after a spontaneous alt-right march encircled a church where friends and colleagues were praying in preparation for today’s hate-filled rally in Charlottesville. The march – complete with torches (but no hoods – hate is on full display) – is, to those who support it, all about holding on to tradition – their tradition of racism and hatred and oppression, the last gasp of the harmful and destructive Lost Cause.

So no, I don’t want to talk about tradition.

And yet, this amazing song by Jim Scott is indeed about the ways that OUR traditions – prayer, connection, non-violent protest, interfaith collaboration, trust and belief in our principles – how our traditions will win.

It is an affirmation, to be sure. But this morning, let it also be a prayer for strength, for good, for affirmation. May this be our prayer for those who are holding strong as counter protestors to the hate on full display in Charlottesville.

Tradition held fast through varied time and place,
the raising of voices, the touching of hands.
Circle of spirit, council of grace,
all faith finds expression ‘cross countless lands.

Freed from the worldly burdens that we bear,
released in this time of forgiving, healing, sharing.
Lifted by the power of our communion,
held in the warmth of a common caring.

Now though we turn to separate lives, renewed,
our circle of peace will not break as we part.
Though form is gone as we conclude,
through us will it open to every fate of life
and every open heart.

Amen.

(I’m sorry that I can’t find a recording of this song. If someone has a link, please share.)

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Am I the only one who sees the first line of this song and thinks of “Man of Constant Sorrow” from O Brother, Where Are Thou? Really? It’s just me? Can’t be.

Anyway…  this is another one I have never sung, and likely never would have chosen because it’s got a title “This Old World” and is stuck next to Children of the Earth, both of which lead one to think they’re more about the planet than the people. To be honest, I’d have stuck this one in the Love and Compassion section rather than the Humanity section, because it’s really about how we love one another. But that’s me.

But check this out – sung to the Southern Harmony tune Restoration – it’s got a fair bit of seriousness and melancholy but also comfort and love in its tune, and in its lyrics. Lyrics I’m pretty much a fan of and have preached on without knowing it.

This old world is full of sorrow, full of sickness, weak and sore;
if you love your neighbor truly, love will come to you the more.

We’re all children of one family; we’re all brothers, sisters, too;
if you cherish one another, love and friendship come to you.

This old world can be a garden, full of fragrance, full of grace;
if we love our neighbors truly, we must meet them face to face.

It is said now, “Love thy neighbor,” and we know well that is true;
this, the sum of human labor, true for me as well as you.

Yes, there’s a bit of binary language in there – “brothers, sisters, too” – but here’s a thing: the words at the bottom of the page that say “Words: American folk tune” are usually a good indication that (a) this has been sung with varying lyrics long before we captured it and (b) no one’s going to mind if you change that to something like “siblings, cousins, too” and (c) that kind of fluidity is expected in this kind of folk tune.

In fact, as I just learned at Folklorist.org, this is a song that has what are called “floating verses” – meaning the chorus (in this case, our first verse) stays the same, and then you float in other verses from other songs that fit the meter. In the examples Folklorist offers, we see verses of all kinds, including

Come, thou font of every blessing,
Move my heart to sing thy praise.
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.

…which fits perfectly and can float in along with other verses in 8.7.8.7 meter. Which is really cool.

So…yeah. I like it a lot. A LOT.

And because I know it’s in your head, here’s Man of Constant Sorrow (song starts about 1:18):

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Mitch Miller (remember him?) included this parody of “Stars and Stripes Forever” on one of his Sing Along with Mitch albums:

Be kind to your web footed friends,
For a duck may be somebody’s mother
Be kind to your friends in the swamp
Where the weather is very, very damp
You may think that this is the end:
Well it is.

And of course, intentionally, it leaves you wanting the rest of the song.

Like this hymn.

We have here two verses put together from the two verses that make up Edwin Markham’s poem “Earth Is Enough.” And what I don’t understand is why the verses have been switched, because the way our hymnal commission reset it, we are left without an ending (which, by the way, we find in the last line of the hymn’s first verse…and which was the last line of the poem).

Here are our lyrics:

Here on the paths of every day —
here on the common human way —
is all the stuff the gods would take
to build a heaven, to mold and make
New Edens. Ours the task sublime
to build eternity in time.

We need no other stones to build
the temple of the unfulfilled —
no other ivory for the doors —
no other marble for the floors —
no other cedar for the beam
and dome of our immortal dream.

I had expected there to be a few more verses of the poem, which would finish us off but which might have been too heavy handed in a theology that doesn’t jive with ours, but no. This one is just an odd switch that has us leading with the ending and ending with the turn.

Adding to my puzzlement was searching for the hymn tune; even if I know it, I often look for more information. There are actually four different tunes called Fillmore – only one is the correct one, but searching for “Southern Harmony” – as noted in our hymnal – along with “Fillmore” doesn’t help, because the tune actually doesn’t come from Southern Harmony. Here’s more information, from Hymnary:

Composer: Jeremiah Ingalls (Born: March 1, 1764, Andover, Massachusetts. Died: April 6, 1828/1838, Hancock, Vermont. Buried: Rochester, Vermont.)

Ingalls moved to Newbury, Vermont, in 1787, and in 1791 began leading the singing at the First Church there. The choir became quite well known, and people came from miles around to hear them. In 1803 Ingalls became a deacon, though he was removed and excommunicated in 1810. He had run a tavern for a number of years, but sold it and moved to Rochester, Vermont, after his falling out with the church. His works include: Christian Harmony, or Songsters Companion.

So while this is a shape note tune, it’s from one of the northern harmony collections. And, if you read between the lines, it is entirely possible that Ingalls became a Unitarian or a Universalist given his falling out with the church (now UCC) in New England in 1810… I’m possibly projecting here, but that often happened.

Anyway. I’m not sure I like this one. If anything, it could be an interesting hymn for right before a sermon or other reading that finishes the thought that Markham actually had finished in his very earth-centered, very Universalist poem.

Now you may think that this is the end.

Well, it is.