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This is such a gorgeous hymn, and a comforting one too.

First, let’s talk melody – Shelley Denham knew what she was doing, writing a sort of lullaby to winter in a gentle 3/2. It is both simple to sing and delicious to sing. I imagine my college choir director reminding us to sing through the long notes with some energy, because there is mystery there.

And then the lyrics –

Dark of winter, soft and still, your quiet calm surrounds me.
Let my thoughts go where they will; ease my mind profoundly.
And then my soul will sing a song, a blessed song of love eternal.
Gentle darkness, soft and still, bring your quiet to me.

Darkness, soothe my weary eyes, that I may see more clearly.
When my heart with sorrow cries, comfort and caress me.
And then my soul may hear a voice, a still, small voice of love eternal.
Darkness, when my fears arise, let your peace flow through me.

These are some beautiful, powerful lyrics for times when comfort and peace are needed…like now. It may not be winter quite yet, and it’s a sunny morning here, but there is a darkness in which ‘my heart with sorrow cries’. I love that Denham hears, out of that dark winter, ‘a still small voice of love eternal’ – yes, yes…not alone but present. Peaceful. Yes.

I’m finding my words are less elegantly composed this morning – but I think that in the face of this elegant hymn, nothing I say would match it.

Perhaps it’s time to just sing it again.

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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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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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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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“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.

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Not so much a morning song as a meditation song…

The morning, noiseless, flings its gold, and still is evening’s pace;
and silently the earth is rolled amid the vast of space.

Night moves in silence round the pole, the stars sing on unheard;
their music pierces to the soul, yet borrows not a word.

In quietude the spirit grows, and deepens hour to hour;
in calm eternal onward flows its all-redeeming power.

Attend, O soul; and hear at length the spirit’s silent voice;
in stillness labor; wait in strength; and, confident, rejoice.

In the land of hymns I have never sung arrives this one.

The morning song series has become almost comical now, one of those ironies you couldn’t make up if you tried. So I was bracing for another one, having spent the night thinking about straight white men and the propensity for some of them to see themselves as victims in a world they perceive as having limited power, success, and love. Bring it on, I thought, do your cheeriest happy morning song while I realize how sad life must be for some.

This hymn surprised me. Set in a minor key, it is contemplative – a hymn I might use to introduce a time of meditation, much like I might use a piece from Mark Belletini’s Sonata for Voice and Silence. And its lyrics invite us into silence – over and over. Not the rollicking springing forth of life as we’ve seen in other morning songs; instead, we get quietude and the silent music of the universe, inviting us to be silent, to labor, to wait, and finally to rejoice confidently.

Wow.

In the last week, I’ve spent a lot of time away from social media and the news, grieving alone, seeking strength where I can get it, sitting in all of my feelings, hoping that strength will return, that hope will show through the cracks, that I will be able to act boldly and confidently again. This hymn gives my process permission to unfold as it has and as it will.

I thank all that is holy for this gift.

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Another damn morning song.

You that have spent the silent night in sleep and quiet rest,
and joy to see the cheerful light that rises in the east,
that rises in the east,

Now lift your hearts, your voices raise, your morning tribute bring;
all nature join in grateful praise — rejoice, give thanks, and sing,
rejoice, give thanks, and sing.

So here’s my truth this morning – I am preparing to lead a service that will include hard feelings, tears, frustrations, and I’m trying to get the congregation to a place of at least some hope. It’s a hope I don’t feel yet. I am feigning faith today.  But I know sometimes that’s called for, when hope is needed.

So I’m finding it awfully annoying that my spiritual practice has me singing songs like this, shoving hope in my face when I’m not ready for it.

And I wonder if that’s the point (spoiler: it is). We don’t always feel this, even when all seems reasonably okay in the world. I know there are times when people come into our doors feeling all kinds of terrible, sad, traumatized – and I wonder what starting a service off with this song would be like for them. Would they, as I did when I encountered it this morning, be filled with rage and tears? Would I find a little hope in it anyway? Would it tell me this community might be a place to put down that burden?

I don’t know, but I have to assume that might be true. So… yeah. I’m not feeling this today, but these damn morning songs keep bringing me back to a truth that says love hasn’t ended, hope still exists, there is something more out there to hold onto in these dark times.

May it be so for all of us.