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It is possible I am about to ruin this hymn for some people.

If you can’t bear to read about the context of this lyric that might change how you see it,  close this window and go do something else. I say, write a letter to your Congress critter. I say, dive into some good work of resistance. Maybe that act for you today is to do art or play with children or run the errands you’ve been putting off. Whatever it is, if you don’t want this hymn ruined, go do it.

For those of you who have stayed, well, you still should do those things, but read first, because I can’t stop giggling. First, the lyrics – read them carefully, and relish in the beautiful language of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, as well as the beautiful vision of a world to be.

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range.
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change;
through the shadow of the globe we sweep ahead to heights sublime,
we, the heirs of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

Oh, we see the crescent promise of that spirit has not set;
ancient founts of inspiration well through all our fancies yet;
and we doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,
and the thoughts of all are widened with the process of the suns.

Yea, we dip into the future, far as human eye can see,
see the vision of the world, and all the wonder that shall be,
hear the war-drum throb no longer, see the battle flags all furled,
in the parliament of freedom, federation of the world.

Lovely, right? Stirring, right? And set to the triumphant melody “Ode to Joy” by Beethoven, it’s strong and inspiring.

Dear Reader, Alfred was writing about love gone wrong.

I’m not kidding.

In the poem “Locksley Hall”, the narrator of the poem is clearly a young man wondering what his future would be, and one evening, he catches a vision:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;
Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.—

Except it wasn’t a vision of the world as we might expect. It was a woman.

Our intrepid poet goes on for dozens of couplets about their meeting, their falling in love, and eventually the relationship ending. And in his despair, our narrator decided he’s so broken hearted that he’s done with women. The distant that beacons in “Not in vain the distant beacons” is a life on the sea and away from women.

THIS IS THE POEM OUR LYRICS ARE FROM.

Now, credit where credit is due – someone, somewhere, with identity lost to the annals of time, remembered the inspiring couplets buried in this poem, and managed to put them together into three sung verses that hold together fairly well.

And yes, it’s true that wisdom and inspiration can come out of otherwise secular pieces about other things. I am certainly not one to poo poo the idea that we find the sacred in the profane – hell, I co-led a service based on the Golden Girls, for goodness’ sake. And recently I played a game with myself to see how many turns of phrase from The West Wing I could sneak into the first 200 words of a sermon. (Seven, as it turns out.)

But I also know that I will never see this song the same way again, because at its root, it’s the grandiose thinking of a heartbroken young man.

Make of it what you will.

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The image is of our brooding poet as a young man.

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It is easier to write about things you care deeply about, whether for good or for ill, than it is to write about things that are, well, fine, and don’t really bother you one way or the other.

Such is the case here. This is a fine hymn. Sure. It works. It’s got decent lyrics but not ones I’m swooning over. Oddly, the tune sounds like an introit, and I can imagine using the last verse exactly that way. It’s a bit weirder singing it four times – I can’t imagine if we sang all six verses; for what it’s worth, the two verses omitted are inspired by the Lord’s prayer but certainly are not out of line for our theologies:

Hallow our love,
hallow the deaths of martyrs,
hallow their holy freedom,
hallowed be your name.

Your kingdom come,
your Spirit turn to language,
your people speak together,
your Spirit never fade.

So…yeah. Decent modern hymn from two Canadians; what’s funny is that in Between the Lines, James has a nice biography of the composer, Robert J. B. Fleming. And for the lyricist? “Francis W. Davis (1936-1976) was a Canadian.” So there’s that. Sorry.

Anyway, here’s our decent hymn, for which I have no real feeling one way or the other.

Let there be light,
let there be understanding,
let all the nations gather,
let them be face to face.

Open our lips,
open our minds to ponder,
open the door of concord
opening into grace.

Perish the sword,
perish the angry judgment,
perish the bombs and hunger,
perish the fight for gain.

Let there be light,
open our hearts to wonder,
perish the way of terror,
hallow the world God made.

(Disclaimer: I know all Canadians are not Doug and Bob McKenzie, but I just could not resist. Plus, it got you to click….)

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Y’all, this song brings up the same commentary about aspiration, and the same commentary about cultural appropriation, and the same commentary about gender inclusion, and the same commentary about zipper songs that I’ve offered before and will be compelled to offer again.

And the truth is, I’m too tired to make the same arguments again. I fear this is one of those times when “ditto” is exactly the right answer, resolving in a predictable “use it with care and caution” and, more often than not “I’m not inclined to use it.”

So… all that being said about this spiritual, let me share two thoughts:

First: There’s a different version of this song that is embedded in the old-time gospel tradition that has been covered by countless gospel singers and choruses. It’s rousing and cheery and definitely old school. This is one of my favorites:

Second: I was trying to read a bit about the imagery of Zion in spirituals, and while my first google search didn’t result in much, I did run across Thomas Wentworth Higginson’s piece for the June 1867 Atlantic Monthly, entitled “Negro Spirituals.” A Union officer (and a Unitarian minister), Higginson was instrumental in the success and survival of the Port Royal Experiment (Later the Penn School, now the Penn Center) which taught the three R’s and other skills to the runaway and later newly freed people.

Now if you read the article, you will, of course, be confronted with the attitudes of the time – even the most enlightened white person of the day still carried with them a tangible systemic racism. But if you can get beyond that, you’ll find something quite amusing:

Remember when I talked about the encoding of spirituals – that they carried important information about the Underground Railroad? It was key to their survival, even while the white ears who heard the songs just thought they were religious in nature. Well…. Good ol’ Thomas had himself a moment with one of these songs:

“O, Jordan bank was a great old bank !
Dere ain’t but one more river to cross.
We have some valiant soldier here,
Dere ain t, &c.
O, Jordan stream will never run dry,
Dere ain’t, &c.
Dere’s a hill on my leff, and he catch on my right,
Dere ain’t but one more river to cross.”

I could get no explanation of this last riddle, except, “Dat mean, if you go on de leff, go to ‘struction, and if you go on de right, go to God, for sure.”

For sure. Nothing to see here, white man. I know you’re on my side, but there’s nothing to see here. Move along now. For sure.

Heh heh.

Anyway… here’s the lyrics. Make of this song what you will, but be careful and cautious in its use.

I’ve got a new name over in Zion,
I’ve got a new name over in Zion,
I’ve got a new name over in Zion!
It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine,
I declare, it’s mine!

I’ve got a mother over in Zion,
I’ve gat a mother over in Zion,
I’ve got a mother over in Zion!
She’s mine, she’s mine, she’s mine,
I declare, she’s mine!

I’ve got a father over in Zion,
I’ve got a father over in Zion,
I’ve got a father over in Zion!
He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine,
I declare, he’s mine!

I’ve got a new life over in Zion,
I’ve got a new life over in Zion,
I’ve got a new life over in Zion!
It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine,
I declare, it’s mine!

Photo is of a path near the Sea Islands, Georgia. No idea if it looked like that 150 years ago, but it’s awfully pretty.

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NO NO NO NO NO NO NO.

Holy cow this is a terrible hymn.

Technically, it’s not terrible – the tune is a favorite – Hyfrodol, made fresh by Peter Mayer in 1064, Blue Boat Home (which will get its day next January).  And the lyrics in terms of rhyme and meter are just fine.

But HOLY COW this is a terrible hymn.

Why? I’m glad you asked.

In the history of humankind, there has been a constant battle between Us and Them – we like Us, and we don’t like Them, so we’ll fight hard to make sure Us is protected from Them, even if we have to build walls and cities within those walls to keep Them out. And we have expected our cities to be beacons for both people who are Us and people who want to be Us. We see it played out throughout the Old Testament, with its understanding of the chosen people, and Zion, and the emphasis on building and protecting Jerusalem.  It’s here that we get all of the “shining city on a hill” imagery that my ancestor John Winthrop spouted in 1630 and which then President Ronald Reagan spouted in the 1980s.

And it’s terrible. It’s empire – meant to keep some people in and some out, meant to keep some people free and others enslaved, meant to separate and oppress.

So when I see “hail the glorious golden city” and “gleaming wall” and “banished from its borders” I scream NO. I mean, just look at these lyrics:

Hail the glorious golden city, pictured by the seers of old:
everlasting light shines o’er it, wondrous things of it are told.
Wise and righteous men and women dwell within its gleaming wall;
wrong is banished from its borders, justice reigns supreme o’er all.

We are builders of that city. All our joys and all our groans
help to rear its shining ramparts; all our lives are building-stones.
Whether humble or exalted, all are called to task divine;
all must aid alike to carry forward one sublime design.

And the work that we have builded, oft with bleeding hands and tears,
oft in error, oft in anguish, will not perish with our years:
it will live and shine transfigured in the final reign of right:
it will pass into the splendors of the city of the light.

There are other hymns that talk about building – in particular, I am thinking of 1017, Building a New Way. The difference is that a song like that is about building a path, a journey, a way for us to be better out in the world not just with Them but seeing Them and Us as useless constructs. I like the idea that we work together to build a path toward that kind of vision.

But when the establishing shot of the vision is “glorious golden city”? I’m tapping out.

Just…. no.

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I’m not sure I have much to say on this one today, short of what I muttered as I finished singing, and as poured my coffee, and I walked up the stairs to the office, and as I opened up this page: “Hmmm. Well.. okay.”

I hoped for more insight from Jacqui James – but all I learned is that Fred Kaan, a congregational minister in England, wrote this for the opening service for the Christian World Conference on Life and Peace in 1983. I suppose that explains the “for children unborn” line… and the cold war sentiment of “energy wasted on weapons of death.”

The tune is unfamiliar but not difficult, although there are some intervals that challenge a pre-coffee, pre-warm-up voice.

I’m not sure why I am so ambivalent about this one – I mean, short of the annoyance I have at the idea that “life” and “death” would rhyme (except metaphorically). Maybe it’s because I don’t need another prayer – I need action and answers. I guess I’m finding this a bit unsatisfactory today. Oh well. Here are the lyrics:

We utter our cry: that peace may prevail!
That earth will survive and faith must not fail.
We pray with our life for the world in our care,
for people diminished by doubt and despair.

We cry from the fright of our daily scene
for strength to say “no” to all that is mean:
designs bearing chaos, extinction of life,
all energy wasted on weapons of death.

We lift up our hearts for children unborn:
give wisdom, O God, that we may hand on,
replenished and tended, this good planet earth,
preserving the future and wonder of birth.

Hmmm. Well… okay.

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The picture today is another unrelated image because nothing came up for me visually. Instead, here’s a beloved covered bridge in Arlington, Vermont, which I was reminded of during a conversation with my friend and colleague Elizabeth Assenza. It’s pretty, isn’t it?

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It is hard to sing this hymn and not see an indictment of the character of the person who currently occupies the White House. The person this hymn describes is the person we want as our president – strong, self-reliant, truthful, not swayed by the attractions of fame, power, and wealth.

And I think about this man who took the oath less than four weeks ago, and I realize how unhappy he probably is, and I feel a sense of pity. I’m sorry that he was brought up in an environment that likely prized winning over loving, acquisition over compassion, self-promotion over self-knowledge. I am sad for the little inner child that cries at night to be seen and loved, because I doubt the man has ever given his inner child one iota of thought, or love, or grace, or apology.

Our first principle calls us to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person – we don’t have to like them, but we have to affirm their inherent worth. In our brighter moments, this is easy. In our darker moments, it’s a struggle. But I’d like to think that we who value the self-possessed and compassionate character defined in this hymn can open our hearts to include some sadness for the boy who never learned this and thus became the man we alternately fear and revile.

How happy are they born or taught,
who do not serve another’s will;
whose armor is their honest thought,
and simple truth their highest skill;

Whose passions not their rulers are;
whose souls are still, and free from fear,
not tied unto the world with care
of public fame or private ear;

Who have their lives from rumors freed,
whose conscience is their strong retreat,
whose state no flattery can feed,
nor ruin make oppressors great.

All such are freed from servile bands
of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
they rule themselves, but rule not lands,
and, having nothing, yet have all.

On a musical note – the tune suits the lyrics, but the lyrics don’t always scan well, meaning I sometimes tripped over which syllable goes where or figuring out exactly what word I was singing over several notes (“ruin” and “happy” especially tripped me up in the singing).

I think it’s a decent hymn and would use it now that I’ve discovered it. In fact, it might be spawning a sermon idea… yeah, that’ll preach.

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Here’s another hymn I might have noticed if the title wasn’t just the first few words – and one I now plan to use.

One of my regular readers, Kaye, has remarked more than once that using the first line rather than the actual (or at least more meaningful) title often leads us to ignore good hymns because the first few words don’t capture what the hymn is really about. I agree.

What I also didn’t know is that if you’re theologically minded, this is kind of a shit-stirrer of a hymn. Remember when we sang all those nature songs and talked about nature is the gateway for the Transcendentalists to find truth and meaning? Well, Hosea Ballou II, grandnephew of the Universalist theologian he was named for, shoots an arrow into that perspective, saying ‘yeah, as cool as nature is, it’s nothing compared to compassion and service to others. Take that, tree huggers.’ Okay, maybe he didn’t exactly say that – but close. He definitely brings us back to humanity in a gorgeous counterpoint to the ‘nature’s everything and we are nothing’ sentiment that sometimes shows up (I’m lookin’ at you, Whittier).

Bright those jewels of the skies which in sable darkness glow.
Brighter in compassion’s eyes are the silent tears which flow.

Sweet the fragrance from the fields where abundant spices grow.
Sweeter far is that which yields comfort to the sick and low.

Grateful are those gentle dews on the greening grass which fall.
Far more grateful what renews comforts to the poor who call.

What I like about this is it isn’t ‘screw the earth, people are all that matter’ – it’s ‘wow, this planet is so amazing, and how more amazing still is compassion? yeah!’ … all set to a medieval French melody that’s lovely and sweet to sing.

I’m a fan. And I had no idea.

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Depending on how it’s played, I either love this hymn or hate it. There’s no inbetween.

Because if it’s played square, and especially if it’s played square and slow, it’s like a zombie – dead but still going. And when the music is zombielike, the lyrics become saccharine and bitter in the mouth.

But when it’s played with energy and syncopation and soul, when it evokes good old gospel music, when there’s room for harmony and improvisation and attention, it soars. The lyrics are good, and real, and positive. It’s Universalism’s call – change the world with your love. And the truth is, as I listen to an imaginary gospel choir singing an as yet unwritten choral arrangement in my head, I am moved to refocus on love, despite the hard nights we’ve experienced.

There’s not much more to say. It’s a familiar hymn to most UUs, and I suspect – depending on their experience – it’s either beloved or reviled.

Love will guide us, peace has tried us,
hope inside us will lead the way
on the road from greed to giving.
Love will guide us through the hard night.

If you cannot sing like angels,
if you cannot speak before thousands,
you can give from deep within you.
You can change the world with your love.

Love will guide us, peace has tried us,
hope inside us will lead the way
on the road from greed to giving.
Love will guide us through the hard night.

One final note: the tune was named Olympia, after Olympia Brown, the first woman to be fully ordained in America, in the Universalist church. Like many before her and many since:, she was warned; an explanation was given; nevertheless, she persisted.

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I have learned that when I particularly like or dislike a contemporary hymn, I stir up some level of controversy, usually on Facebook (although some of it shows up in the comments here too). I don’t like Bring Many Names, but you would have thought I’d killed a basket of puppies when I said so. But I weathered that, and I’m still friends with the folks who disagreed with me, so here we go, once more into the breach.

I really like this hymn. The caveat, of course, is that it must be played well and at a decent tempo. Played badly and no one knows where or when to sing. Played too slow, and it makes absolutely no sense. But played well and at a good tempo (76 bpm is recommended – it could go to about 84), and it’s wonderful.

First of all, I do love the tune – I don’t know exactly what it is that works for me, but it does. It has a hint of ‘the composer listened to Godspell and Pippin a lot’, and as someone who also listened to Godspell and Pippin a lot, it makes sense. But I know it also works to sing – not too high or too low, interesting phrases that remain easy to sing, and a distinct lack of stodginess.

But it is the words that really captured me today; it is a song of thanksgiving – but not a rosy thanks to that unseen Divine. Rather, it’s a gritty, real thanks – as much to each other and ourselves as anything. And it’s the third verse that really caught me today – ‘for each new thing we learn, for fearful hours that pass’ – in the horrifying Gish Gallop that is this new administration, we must still give praise and thanks – because (a) we do learn from sorrows, pains, and failures and (b) it is these that often motivate our work and service (especially when we can see another’s woe), which we also give praise and thanks for.

For all that is our life we sing our thanks and praise;
for all life is a gift which we are called to use
to build the common good and make our own days glad.

For needs which others serve, for services we give,
for work and its rewards, for hours of rest and love;
we come with praise and thanks for all that is our life.

For sorrow we must bear, for failures, pain, and loss,
for each new thing we learn, for fearful hours that pass:
we come with praise and thanks for all that is our life.

For all that is our life we sing our thanks and praise;
for all life is a gift which we are called to use
to build the common good and make our own days glad.

A beautiful, grounding song of praise and thanksgiving. It makes my own day glad.

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This one nearly speaks for itself – it asks the question many of us ask of those who seem to take a perverse joy at the suffering of others. Over and over, in the face of laws and judgments that seek to punish the victims, the oppressed, the suffering, we ask of those people: what if it were your daughter? what if it were your child? what if you were in need of sanctuary? what if you had nothing to eat, no roof, no comfort?

And, discomfortingly, these are questions we have been asking for centuries, if not millennia. William Blake’s poem, “On Another’s Sorrow”, from which our hymn is deftly crafted, asked this in the 18th century. How hard-hearted have humans been! How cold, calculating, and disdainful humans have been!

And this makes me weep. In my heart of hearts, I believe that humans are essentially good, that we are born good. And yet, over and over, there is evidence not only that evil exists in the world but also that some may have a propensity for it – or at least a lack of empathy that allows evil to flourish. This, more than anything, is what causes my weltschmerz – my world weariness.

This hymn – and the longer Blake poem – are intended to swell the mystic chords of memory by the better angels of our nature. To me, the hymn is a sad, haunting reminder of how few actually hear those mystic chords.

Can I see another’s woe,
and not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
and not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
and not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child weep,
nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no, never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

The tune is another favorite – another delicious melody from the 16th century. Its minor key and flowing lines are solemn and bittersweet. A perfect match for these words.

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The image is also by William Blake, illustrations created for an illuminated edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Learn more here.