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I looked at the title and started singing the hymn before I’d even gotten to the page.

I knew this was another one of those wonderful Southern Harmony tunes, and I relished in it as I flipped open the hymnal. “What more can I say about Southern Harmony?” I said to myself. “I don’t want to bore my readers.”

Flip…flip…flip….ah, number 69. Oh wait. Union Harmony.

UNION Harmony?

Apparently, while William Walker was in South Carolina compiling Southern Harmony, WIlliam Caldwell was in Tennessee compiling Union Harmony. Both are collections of tunes noted in shape note (the note heads have different shapes to, as the theory goes, facilitate easier learning – here’s an example of Amazing Grace in shape note:

Both men collected tunes that had cropped up in the first two hundred years of European settlement in the eastern US – tunes that, as I reflected a few days ago, are borne of tragedy and sorrow but tinged with hope.

Such is the case in this one (the tune is called Foundation). And because of the vague melancholy of the tune, the words seem less plainly cheerful and more earnest.

Give thanks for the corn and the wheat that are reaped,
for labor well done and for barns that are heaped,
for the sun and the dew and the sweet honeycomb,
for the rose and the song and the harvest brought home.

Give thanks for the mills and the farms of our land,
for craft and the strength in the work of our hands,
for the beauty our artists and poets have wrought,
for the hope and affection our friendships have brought.

Give thanks for the homes that with kindness are blessed,
for seasons of plenty and well-deserved rest,
for our country extending from sea unto sea,
for ways that have made it a land for the free.

And it becomes even more melancholy at that last couplet. Is this the land of the free? Free for whom? Or is this aspiration again, knocking on our doors, reminding us of the vision and intention of America even as we regularly watch ourselves fall short?

We have much to be thankful for – even if not everyone has all of those things. We have much to be thankful for – even as we work to ensure everyone eventually does.  We have much to be thankful for – even if it’s simply a hymn that reminds us not just what we have, but what we know is true in the world, and what calls us to help.

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I’ve been watching the series The Crown on Netflix – it’s the story of the first few years of the reign of Queen Elizabeth II, told in that predictably sweeping BBC style that endears to us such shows as Downton Abbey and Call the Midwife. It’s full of beautiful scenery, palace intrigue (literally in this case), and lots of traditional music intertwined with the glorious score written for the show. As expected, several scenes happen in religious settings (state funerals, royal weddings, coronations – just regular stuff), and thus the familiar English hymns make prominent appearance.

And so it is with this mental backdrop that I approach this hymn today. It is set to a tune called “St George’s Windsor” – which made me think immediately of the Royal Family, knowing that in the House of Windsor there have been a couple of Georges (although I doubt many would consider them saints). And sure enough, the composer George Elvey was the organist at the Windsor Chapel, hence the name. (Elvey also wrote “Crown Him with Many Crowns” – which is another staple in mainline Protestant churches).

This is, as the Psalter Hymnal Handbook describes, “a serviceable Victorian tune.”

Talk about damning with faint praise.

Come, ye thankful people, come, raise a song of harvest home:
fruit and crops are gathered in, safe before the storms begin;
God, our Maker, will provide for our needs to be supplied;
come to God’s own temple, come, raise a song of harvest home.

All the world is but a field, given for a fruitful yield;
wheat and tares together sown, here for joy or sorrow grown:
first the blade, and then the ear, then the full corn shall appear;
God of harvest, grant that we wholesome grain and pure may be.

Now here’s the truth for me: it’s not a hymn that gets my blood moving or my spirit soaring. It’s not a hymn that comforts me or inspires me. And yet, I really like it. It appeals to that part of me that cries every time I hear Holst’s Planets, or the English hymn Jerusalem (click on that link – it’s a stunning rendition). It is a lovely English melody tinged with pomp and circumstance, and for some reason, that works for me. As unstuffy as I am, I very much appreciate this tune.

I realize I haven’t talked lyrics today. It’s not that they’re not interesting – they are. The metaphor of harvest for human goodness is an intriguing one worth unpacking some day. I don’t know that I’ve actually read the lyrics before (because it’s possible to sing the words but not actually read the lyrics), but I’m intrigued. I have no conclusions yet… but there’s something aspirational about “grant that we wholesome grain and pure may be”…and maybe a little unattainable. But just as we will never get close to the crown by watching The Crown, we will never get to pure by singing about it. But it sure is nice to think that we’re working on it.

—

Update, November 15, 2017:

A few days ago, my colleague Kendyl Gibbons offered this new set of lyrics. She wrote, “It occurs to me that a re-do of the traditional Thanksgiving hymn Come Ye Thankful People that I have been using for a while may be of use to others as we plan for the next few weeks.  The adaptation is mine; please use freely.”

Come, ye thankful people, come;
Raise the song of harvest home.
All is safely gathered in
Ere the winter storms begin.
Earth is bounteous to provide
For our wants to be supplied;
Come, in glad thanksgiving, come;
Raise the song of harvest home.

These our days are as a field
Sweet abundant fruit to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown.
First the bud and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear.
Live so that at harvest we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

Field and furrow, heavy grown;
Yours to tend but not your own.
Bread of life shall ye restore
To your neighbors evermore.
Gather all the nations in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin.
Let the world in gladness come;
Share the joy of harvest home.

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What is it about the Southern Harmony tunes? There’s something that just gets me about them – they get inside me and speak deeply to my soul.

In a recent episode of Krista Tippett’s On Being with Béla Fleck and Abigail Washburn, two amazing banjo players and musicians, Washburn talks about hearing Doc Watson for the first time. She remarks that although she was studying law in China at the time, that ancient melody played on banjo and sung by Watson revealed the heart and truth of America. Washburn talks about the African roots of the banjo and this music:

“As people were being boarded onto the slave ships, the people said “throw your heart down here; you’re not going to want to carry it to where you’re going.’ A lot of the slave masters figured out that if they had a banjo player on board, playing the music of home, more of the ‘cargo’ would live to the other side. So the origins of the banjo in America are the bitterest of roots … and it formed an amazing origin to what became a blend of traditions from Africa, Scotland, and Ireland, when those banjo players from Africa and the fiddlers from Scotland and Ireland started playing plantation dances together. That’s what started what we know as that early Appalachian and that early American sound. That sound is based in this bitter root but with this hope ‘that I can live – I can survive.’

It is that truth – the bitter root tinged with hope – that appears in the Southern Harmony tunes, I think. And so whatever words we apply to them both benefit from and should contribute to this deep soul truth.

In this case, the lyric gets close, but for me, doesn’t go deep enough.

When the summer sun is shining over golden land and sea,
and the flowers in the hedgerow welcome butterfly and bee;
then my open heart is glowing, full of warmth for everyone,
and I feel an inner beauty which reflects the summer sun.

When the summer clouds of thought bring the long-awaited rain,
and the thirsty soil is moistened and the grass is green again;
then I long for summer sunshine, but I know that clouds and tears
are a part of life’s refreshment, like the rainbow’s hopes and fears.

In the cool of summer evening, when the dancing insects play,
and in garden, street, and meadow linger echoes of the day;
then my heart is full of yearning; hopes and mem’ries flood the whole
of my being, reaching inwards to the corners of my soul.

It’s close – so close – dancing around the edges of meaning, offering a glimpse of some deeper words to come.

And they don’t here. But maybe that’s a good thing in this case. Maybe this hymn is an opening, an invitation to offer the ‘next ten words, and the ten after that’ because our bitter roots tinged with hope need more words and more ideas and more play.

Meanwhile, set to the tune Holy Manna, these words open the door to something deeper, something maybe unnamable.

Like, maybe, truth.

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Another season, another praise for the season song.

Color me surprised.

Now don’t get me wrong – this isn’t a bad thing. Hymns like this are wonderful openings for seasonal services, especially those that celebrate our seventh principle. And the tune is delightful and lively – this is a perfect opening hymn for the first week of June.

It’s the sacred version of “The Lusty Month of May” from Camelot. Tra la.

The sweet June days are come again; once more the glad earth yields
its golden wealth of rip’ning grain, and breath of clover fields,
and deep’ning shade of summer woods, and glow of summer air,
and winging thoughts and happy moods of love and joy and prayer.

The sweet June days are come again; the birds are on the wing;
bright anthems, in their merry strain, unconsciously they sing.
Oh, how our cup o’er brims with good these happy summer days;
for all the joys of field and wood we lift our song of praise.

The truth is, I wish I had more to say (It is possible that this is exhaustion talking – I landed at LaGuardia after a short trip to Phoenix at midnight and had to drive 90 minutes home, so I haven’t exactly had a full eight).

This isn’t a hymn that moves me or awakens anything in me. It’s lovely, it’s something you’ll hum in the lobby…er…coffee hour later, it’s a nice piece. But it’s not an earth-shaker for me. It’s just a nice, sweet little hymn that I am glad exists.

Although to be fair, it’s cold here on the North Fork of Long Island, and I don’t see myself tra-la-ing any time soon. Fa-la-la-ing around a Christmas tree, on the other hand…

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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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This hymn has genuinely surprised me.

First, let’s talk tune: it’s set to an Hasidic melody that holds in its phrases a secret and unspoken longing – certainly an intriguing choice for a hymn called “When the Daffodils Arrive.”

I will also say that at first, I plunked it out fairly slowly – but then I took it at tempo, and learned its other secret: it is a dance.

When the daffodils arrive in the Easter of the year,
and the spirit starts to thrive, let the heart beat free and clear.

When the pussy willows bloom in the springing of the year,
let the heart find loving room, spread their welcome far and near.

When the sweet rain showers come, in the greening of the year,
birds will sing and bees will hum. Alleluia time is here.

Now there is something to make you go “hrm” here – it’s an Hasidic tune, talking about Easter. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that… it’s another juxtaposition that makes you wonder what the hymnal commission was thinking. But, here it is, Easter in an Hasidic tune.

And yet I love the lyrics. And I love the tune. I’m just not quite sure I would use this because of the jarring collision. But I’m not sure I wouldn’t either… the jury’s still out.

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Some might say this is unsingable.

It’s a complex, twentieth-century modern, sometimes atonal piece of music, and to the average congregant trying to sing for the first time, makes no sense and might make people run out the doors, never to come back.

That’s because this isn’t a song for congregational singing.

You see, what we forget about the hymnal is that it’s not just a sing-along book, it is a collection of the music that informs, inspires, and imagines our Living Tradition. These are the songs and readings that, in 1993, anyway, were deemed most important to our heritage, our theologies, and our movement forward. That’s why there are songs from the time of slavery, and songs from non-western cultures, and songs like this one.

In time of silver rain the earth puts forth new life again,
green grasses grow and flowers lift their heads,
and over all the plain the wonder spreads of life, of life, of life!

In time of silver rain the butterflies lift silken wings,
and trees put forth new leaves to sing in joy beneath the sky
in time of silver rain, when spring and life are new.

Now if I had just read the lyrics, I’d say “meh” to them – they, like many that have gone before (and many that will come after), don’t really go anywhere. They describe a state of mind and a state of the earth’s cycle – namely, early spring.

But that’s only half the story here. This is a poem by notable 20th century poet Langston Hughes, set to music by one of the most prolific 20th century composers, George Walker. Hughes is famous in our circles for sure, an easy addition to any service thanks to his powerful words and jazz-like lyric. Walker is sadly much less well known – a Black composer of Jamaican descent, Walker (who is still alive at age 94) wrote concertos, symphonies, cantatas, and choral works and won a Pulitzer for Lilacs. Walker has had a long and prolific career that rivals his more famous white contemporaries like Copland, Britten, Cage, Shostakovich, Barber.

It’s too bad he’s not better known – while this kind of 20th century modern classical isn’t my cup of tea, it’s important that we lift up and celebrate artists like Walker, and examine our places of privilege that make discovering a composer like this an uncomfortable revelation in our journey toward justice.

Which is, I’d say, precisely why this song is in this hymnal.

It is not meant to be sung by a congregation – an important note that makes the need for a hymnal companion all the more necessary. It is meant to be sung for a congregation, to celebrate the richness of creativity and meaning and expand the boundaries of our tiny experiences.

 

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I love being surprised by a hymn.

I opened the page and groaned a little at yet another hymn I don’t know – wild bells? Clouds? Frosty light? Oy vei. Here we go again, I thought. Another fairly fluffy lyric that doesn’t go anywhere. And oh, look, another tune I have never sung.

I decided to tackle the tune first, which I discovered is a remarkable little melody with graceful lines and a touch of melancholy. That in hand, I turned to sing.

And I discovered the fluffy lyrics don’t last long at all.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild, wild sky,
the flying cloud, the frosty light:
the year is dying in the night;
ring out, wild bells, and let it die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
ring, happy bells, across the snow:
the year is going, let it go;
ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
for those that here we see no more;
ring out the feud of rich and poor;
ring in redress to humankind.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
the civic slander and the spite;
ring in the love of truth and right;
ring in the common love of good.

In fact, holy cow, this hymn was written for today.

I did finally realize this is a setting of an Alfred Lord Tennyson poem, which I immediately looked up. There are a few more verses, all equally powerful statements against greed, abuse, hatred, and callousness – and ends with a plea for peace, kindness, compassion, and “the Christ that is to be.’

Wow. Why are we not singing this hymn every week? Are others using this hymn right now in this strange time in our history and I’m just late to the party? Are they waiting to use it in December? I’m thinking now about how this would fit in, because we need to ring out a lot of things right now to make room for “truth and right” and “the common love of good.”

It’s time to ring the bells.

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There’s a funny opening in an episode of Family Guy, where the guys are sitting at the Drunken Clam, and a Barry Manilow concert is announced. At first they make fun of it, but slowly, they are comfortable enough to confess how much they love Manilow and are soon like excited teenagers as they plan to see him in concert.

I feel a little like this, especially in the company of my friends who are lovers of much less schmaltzy English composers like Benjamin Britten. But the truth is, I love Ralph Vaughn Williams, who set this English folk tune in a lovely arrangement. He did hymnody a great service with his settings and compositions. He parted from his contemporaries and leaned into the beautiful folk tunes of England and France, and wrote lush, harmonious pieces that are a joy to listen to and a joy to sing. And I am definitely a fan of this tune.

I also rather like the lyrics, with some rich metaphors and turns of phrase, although their place is complex: is it a winter hymn? An Advent hymn? A praise hymn? Some part of all three, I suspect.

All beautiful the march of days, as seasons come and go;
the hand that shaped the rose hath wrought the crystal of the snow;
hath sent the hoary frost of heaven, the flowing waters sealed,
and laid a silent loveliness on hill and wood and field.

O’er white expanses sparkling clear the radiant morns unfold;
the solemn splendors of the night burn brighter through the cold;
life mounts in every throbbing vein, love deepens round the hearth,
and clearer sounds the angel-hymn, “Good will to all on earth.”

O Thou from whose unfathomed law the year in beauty flows,
thy self the vision passing by in crystal and in rose.
Day unto day doth utter speech, and night to night proclaim,
in ever changing words of light, the wonder of thy name.

My problem is this: the tune’s a bit cheery and springy and seems a tad odd in this setting. It will seem odd in future posts too – I go back to my comment a few weeks ago about how meter doesn’t always mean the lyrics fit. For me, it’s a hair too happy a tune, especially for lyrics like “laid a silent loveliness” and “life mounts in every throbbing vein, love deepens round the hearth”… I don’t want spritely trills while singing those lyrics, I want a lush, lengthened melody line there.

And for all this grousing, I sang this with some measure of gusto. The tune almost requires a full-bodied sing with its lilt and intricate movement. So I don’t know. Maybe this series has me looking at these hymns with a more critical eye than is necessary. Maybe it’s the mood, and it will pass, and soon I will be transported again into the mystery, inspiration, and comfort of singing hymns. Who knows?

What I know is that despite my thinking this marriage of tune and lyric doesn’t quite work, I am glad for the singing.

 

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I feel like I am supposed to be reverent about the Hungarian tune, because we have a connection to Hungary.

I feel like I am supposed to be reverent about the lyrics, because it’s brimming with meaning.

But the truth is, the entire thing leaves me cold and not very reverent at all. I’m having the same problem I have had before – with tunes that are puzzling to sing and lyrics that don’t go anywhere. It doesn’t help that the lyrics have an odd pattern – 11.11.11.5 – so right off, we’re ending six beats early.

Bells in the high tower, ringing o’er the white hills,
mocking the winter, singing like the spring rills;
bells in the high tower, in the cold foretelling
the spring’s upwelling.

Bells in the old tower, like the summer chatter
from darting bright birds, as the grapes turn redder;
bells in the old tower, now the wine is brimming,
new life beginning.

Bells in the stone tower, echoing the soft sound
of autumn’s mill wheel, as the wheat is spun round;
bells in the stone tower, see, the bread is yeasting
for time of feasting.

Bells in the cold tower, ‘midst the snow of winter
sound out the spring song that we may remember;
bells in the cold tower, after the long snowing
come months of growing.

I mean, look at that. Awkward.

Now I am aware that the wonderful and talented Elizabeth Alexander has reset the lyrics to a new tune in Singing the Journey, which we’ll get to in early 2018. I’ve not sung that one either, but I hope she’s made an adjustment for that clunky non-ending. Because this is just…. well, awful.

There. I said it. I’m not having it, okay? It’s an unsatisfying tune, with equally unsatisfying lyrics. Truly, it just sits there, and doesn’t even end. It’s like Vladimir and Estragon in the last scene of Waiting for Godot.