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As I dig deeper into this section of Mystical and Meditation Songs, I realize how much I love these songs – and need them. Right now, the congregation I serve only uses two hymns, so there is no contemplative hymn in the middle of the service. And oh, how I miss that. We still have a time of meditation, but we don’t sing together an intentional time of quieting. And there’s something about that moment that is… well, somehow sacred.

This is another of my favorites, period. Not just of this type of song, but a favorite hymn. It is evocative and gentle, set to the lovely Coolinge melody. in Between the Lines, Jacqui James notes that lyricist Monroe Beardsley wrote this for a service designed to show the meaning of silence.

From all the fret and fever of the day,
let there be moments when we turn away
and, deaf to all confusing outer din,
intently listen for the voice within.

In quietness and solitude we find
the soundless wisdom of the deeper mind;
with clear harmonious purpose let us then
bring richer meaning to the world again.

Mmmmm. Yes.

And knowing that one of the members of the Hymnal Commission also wrote a meditation book called Sonata for Voice and Silence, I suspect Rev. Mark Belletini may have had a hand in this being included… because the truth is, we are people of the word, but we’re so busy talking we often forget to listen. Mark’s meditations – and this hymn – call us back to silence, to be quiet for a moment, to “intently listen for the voice within.”

May we all find richer meaning – in our silence, in our encounters, and in our new year… which we hope, in the words of Sherman T. Potter (M*A*S*H), will “be a damn sight better than the old one.”

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I went on a bit yesterday about early Anglican poetry and music, not realizing that one of the most famous pieces – and my favorite – to come out of that era (1550-1650) was next on our hit parade.

This poem, “The Call,” was written by George Herbert, an Anglican priest and poet from Wales. Herbert was considered a masterful orator and writer, and did a brief stint in Parliament and as Trinity College’s public orator (because apparently that was a thing) before returning to the priesthood.

But what we remember from Herbert is not his service to the Crown or the Church but his writing. His posthumously published book A Priest in the Temple, more commonly known as The Country Parson is both a snapshot into early 17th century England and in parts could definitely be written today. It’s a slim volume that serves largely as a handbook for clergy in rural parishes; it addresses such practical questions as keeping house, and local charity, as well as providing advice for issues around marriage and caring for women in the parish. Herbert’s observations and advice are just as appropriate for today; proof that while technology and culture may change, people don’t.

But I digress (I told you I was a geek). This poem is part of Herbert’s vast body of work that places him squarely in the cannon of the Metaphysical Poets – John Donne perhaps the most famous of them all. These poets – loosely held together under this moniker, did not write all together in one particular style, but what connects them is a particular use of nature as metaphor, mystical sensibilities, and a particular intelligence and cleverness that some contemporaries (and subsequent critics such as Samuel Johnson – the guy who wrote a dictionary) found untenable.

And yet, the poetry lives – beautifully, I might add. Enough trivia – let’s get to it:

Come, my way, my truth, my life:
such a way as gives us breath,
such a truth as ends all strife,
such a life as killeth death.

Come, my light, my feast, my strength:
such a light as shows a feast,
such a feast as mends in length,
such a strength as makes a guest.

Come, my joy, my love, my heart:
such a joy as none can move,
such a love as none can part,
such a heart as joys in love.

This is, at its heart, a meditation on John 14:6 – “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Yet it speaks beyond any one belief and to a greater call from the Spirit of Life that we can all find truth, strength, joy, love. Come, Herbert asks of us. If we come to that which we call a higher power, we will know.

Beautiful.

And…beautifully set to a tune by Ralph Vaughan Williams as part of a piece called Five Mystical Songs, all based on Herbert poems. Each one is simply gorgeous and perfectly matched to Herbert’s lush poetry. I recommend taking the 20 minutes to listen.

Clearly, I love this one. And on a day when we say goodbye to one year and hello to a new, very uncertain one, it’s good to remember to come home to love.

Come.

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Here is another beautiful prayer – and when I first read the lyrics, I thought “why do I not use this more often?” And then I sang it.

Now don’t get me wrong: I love the Tallis Canon. It’s particularly beautiful when done in three parts in a big echo-y chapel so that the bell tones resonate and last a few moments after the voices cease their singing. Plus, I’m a fan of 16th century English sacred music, especially since writing a paper on 16th century English sacred music for a class entitled Anglican Devotional Poetry and Literature 1550-1650, and having listened to and fallen in love with a fair bit of the music in the process. Yes, in case it wasn’t perfectly clear already, I am a geek.

My problem with the Tallis Canon for these 19th century lyrics by Matthew Arnold is that, once again, it doesn’t really fit. Here’s this soulful, contemplative lyric:

Calm soul of all things, make it mine
to feel, amid the city’s jar,
that there abides a peace of thine
I did not make, and cannot mar.

The will to neither strive nor cry,
the power to feel with others, give.
Calm, calm me more; nor let me die
before I have begun to live.

And it’s set to a reasonably jolly tune. Now don’t get me wrong, there are jollier tunes in the hymnal for sure, but this is meant to be a calm, meditative plea of the heart. This tune just doesn’t cut it for me.

What would I suggest in its place? Truth From Above – used in 289, Creative Love, Our Thanks We Give. That tune has a soulfulness that I think is called for here. It’s not quite as familiar, but it feels like the kind of thing we’d gather around candles at dusk to sing, or maybe hear wafting from within the cloister walls, or perhaps hauntingly sung by Lorena McKennitt or Enya.

I do know that I need this prayer today, despite sitting in the quiet of my sister’s house in a small Victorian village on this snowy Friday between the holidays. So much is jarring right now – and so I pray for the peace and calm, even if for a moment.

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The story goes that this is the last song the orchestra played as the Titanic was going down, that final prayer that we put things right because we’re surely going to die, and soon we’ll be nearer to God so we better pray now out of panic.

But English Unitarian poet Sarah Flower Adams wasn’t writing a last-ditch-effort prayer; she was writing a hymn inspired by Jacob’s dream:

He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder* set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. (Genesis 28:11-12, NRSV)

Now look at the lyrics:

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me;
still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
darkness be over me, my rest a stone;
yet in my dreams I’d be nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

There let the way appear steps unto heaven;
all that thou sendest me in mercy given;
angels to beckon me nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Then, with my waking thoughts bright with thy praise,
out of my stony griefs Bethel I’ll raise;
so by my woes to be nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Or if on joyful wing cleaving the sky,
sun, moon, and stars forgot, upwards I fly,
still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee,
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee.

Do you see it? Don’t let the cross get in the way – because otherwise, it’s all there: the stone for a pillow, steps unto heaven, angels, the founding of Bethel, etc.  This is the moment for Jacob: taking off for the hills, questions swirling and seeking answers – and God saying “let me show you this is not in vain – I shall call you ‘he who wrestles with God’: Israel.”

This telling of Jacob’s dream is a prayer for a connection, for fulfillment of a quest, for seeking and seeing. Despite all the hardships and wandering, I’ll go out and sing praises and pray for enlightenment. All of my wrestling and struggling is not for naught; rather, it keeps me engaged. As I release that which has caused me pain, I will be closer to that which I seek.

It’s still not a hymn for every congregation or for every day, and too many will think still of this scene from Titanic, but framed as part of our own call to question our answers and grow always closer into harmony with the Divine and each other, this is a perfect hymn.

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Now this one really is a prayer.

In fact, Jacqui James points out in Between the Lines that the incredible Shelley Denham wrote this as a prayer. And called the tune Prayer.

And wow, what a prayer. It is gentle to self even as it calls for strength. It is a quiet prayer of preparation, of focus and stillness. This is the song we should be singing every morning, not just an occasional Sunday or a random Wednesday. I don’t have a lot to say because it already says so much – it is beautifully crafted and beautiful to sing and carries our prayer on its gentle melody.

Blessed Spirit of my life, give me strength through stress and strife;
help me live with dignity; let me know serenity.
Fill me with a vision, clear my mind of fear and confusion.
When my thoughts flow restlessly, let peace find a home in me.

Spirit of great mystery, hear the still, small voice in me.
Help me live my wordless creed as I comfort those in need.
Fill me with compassion, be the source of my intuition.
Then, when life is done for me, let love be my legacy.

Amen.

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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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Merry Christmas to me – this is one of my very favorite hymns.

First of all, let’s not kid ourselves – 19th century English composer Samuel Wesley knew what he was doing when he wrote the anthem “Praise the Lord, O My Soul,” which includes the melody that we know as “Lead Me Lord.” Its composition itself – even without lyrics – is a prayer, beautifully formed in a conversational style (and an irregular meter) that calls us to speak what is on our hearts. Whether that is a prayer to God (“Lead me lord”) or as we encounter it, a prayer to Creation, this tune – with its complex harmonies yet ease of singing – calls us to look inward even as we look far outward.

And then we add the lyrics – for some Unitarian Universalists, this might be as close to prayer to anything or anyone as they might come. The words themselves draw us outward and inward – stillness, flight, and light become prayerful metaphors for that which our souls cry out for.

Winds be still.
Storm clouds pass and silence come.
Peace grace this time with harmony.
Fly, bird of hope, and shine, light of love,
and in calm let all find tranquility.

Bird fly high.
Lift our gaze toward distant view.
Help us to sense life’s mystery.
Fly high and far, and lead us each to see
how we move through the winds of eternity.

Light shine in.
Luminate our inward view.
Help us to see with clarity.
Shine bright and true so we may join our songs
in new sounds that become full symphony.

When I sing this hymn alone, I find a moment of stillness, a sense of release, and often – like this morning – a few tears that offer a moment of clarity. When I sing this hymn with others, I find a surprising connection, as though we have just breathed together in harmony for the first time and we have been, for even a moment, changed.

I love this hymn. I am grateful the universe conspired to give it to me on this Christmas morning.

To all of you – Happy Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. May this day bring you joy and comfort.

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This is one of those mornings when the to-do list seems more important than this practice. In fact, I did several things before sitting down to sing, which is not typical. Usually, I feed the cat, put on the coffee, and open the hymnal to sing while the holy liquid of all existence brews in order to bring me life. Then I sit at the computer and reflect.

This morning, I also did some dishes, wrapped my office manager’s Christmas present, and prepared for a weekly spiritual offering I do at the local hospital. And I gazed at the next items on the list before thinking, oh, I should get to the hymn before I forget.

So here I am, having finally gotten to the hymn. And I admit, I was pretty distracted as I began – grateful to Small Church Music for a lovely organ rendition of this piece by Haydn, so I wasn’t working hard to learn it. I was about half with the hymn, half still thinking about what’s next on the list.

And then somewhere around the end of the second verse, I began to notice the lyrics – “our hearts soar high up on the breeze of songs the spirit longs to sing.”

Wow. I mean, just read these lyrics:

The wordless mountains bravely still,
the ground below us firm and free,
the gentle quilt of field and hill,
shall grant us solid dignity.

With breathless wind through leafless trees,
and gasp of currents on the wing,
our hearts soar high up on the breeze
of songs the spirit longs to sing.

The crimson flame of summer sun,
the glow of hearth on winter’s eve,
refining fire shines through the One
whose passions lead us to believe.

The slow and gracious ocean deep,
and raindrops gathering one by one,
feed well-springs in our souls to keep
for times when tears like rivers run.

The earth and water, fire and air,
the elements of wondrous grace,
the glory of creation rare
encircles us in its embrace.

I know I have previously complained about all the ‘yay nature, but it doesn’t go anywhere’ hymns. But this one – while in some respects a litany, really moves. It isn’t just a “look, nature’s cool, and we should be moved by it/in awe of it/shamed by it” (I still growl about that one). Rather, this one gives us something deeper. I am not sure what that something is – maybe it’s more of that theology that invites us in to be a part of creation, not just observers of it – “the glory of creation rare encircles us in its embrace.” We see ourselves not only reflected but also a part of nature.

The tune – it’s Haydn. Eighteenth century pomp and majesty is pretty compelling for symphonies, concertos, cantatas, and hymns – and this is no exception. When I first listened, I thought “this is too Episcopalian for us” (sorry, Episco–Pals) – but once the marriage of tune and lyric woke me up so I would take notice, I realize how perfect it is. These lyrics want both quiet contemplation and a bit of majesty and awe.

This one works for me today. I’m glad I finally paid attention.

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Any other day, I might be up for a significant rewrite of a classic poem, but today is not that day. Snarky, cynical Kimberley is back, and she’s not having it.

I read the lyrics, sang (another fine Southern Harmony tune), then read again, feeling baffled. So I went to the internet to look up the original poem to see if anyone had any commentary, because I just wasn’t getting it.

It took me a long while to find it – finally, the phrase “whirl the glowing wheels” was enough for Google to point me to the original poem “Song of Nature.” For the record, I’m much more familiar with Emerson’s essays than his poetry – and even reading the full poem didn’t ring any bells of familiarity.

Now I am all for one art form inspiring the next – that’s what it’s all about, really. I like it when passages of longer pieces become lyric. I even get adjustments of words to fit musical meter. But this one has gotten under my skin in a bad way, and I think I know why: instead of picking a couple of verses that say something specific, the person who adapted the poem took bits and bobs from throughout the long poem and, to me, edited out the actual spirit of the poem.

The Song of Nature is a first-person song, sung by Nature! This adaptation is third-person – a human’s eye view. Oh gosh, yes, let’s notice once again nature and how long-lived it is. Because we haven’t already done that in previous hymns. But that’s not the point of the poem. The point of the poem is Nature, recounting with joy the long expanse of time through which she has stood and watched sometimes happily, sometimes sadly, as humans play their human games of birth, inspiration, anger, war, peace, and death. That’s the point – Nature sees the long arc of the universe, moral or otherwise, and sings an ode to it.

This hymn hints at what Emerson was going for, but to me takes all the teeth out of it.

No number tallies nature up, no tribe its house can fill;
it is the shining fount of life and pours the deluge still.
And gathers by its fragile powers along the centuries
from race on race the rarest flowers, its wreath shall nothing miss.

It writes the past in characters of rock and fire and scroll,
the building in the coral sea, the planting of the coal.
And thefts from satellites and rings and broken stars it drew,
and out of spent and aged things it formed the world anew.

Must time and tide forever run, nor winds sleep in the west?
Will never wheels which whirl the sun and satellites have rest?
Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more, and mix the bowl again;
seethe, Fate, the ancient elements, heat, cold, and peace, and pain.

Blend war and trade and creeds and song, let ripen race on race,
the sunburnt world that we shall breed of all the countless days.
No ray is dimmed, no atom worn, the oldest force is new,
and fresh the rose on yonder thorn gives back the heavens in dew.

And maybe I’m being too cynical. Maybe my mood – compromised by bad health news about one of my beloved pets – isn’t up to seeing some of Emerson’s poetry being sung at all. Maybe I stand alone in my frustration and disappointment, wishing for more than a hymn could provide. I mean, it might be weird to sing all the I-statements of this poem; it would easily be confusing to the singer.

So I don’t know… I’m not sure a hymn like this HAD to exist at all, given the plethora of other good nature hymns and the actual power of the original poem.

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This hymn made me giggle with a little delight and a little theological tee-hee this morning.

First, the giggles of delight – I love the Coolinge hymn tune (I got too caught up in Robert Frost the last time this came up to mention it), and thus, anything set to it already has a leg up. It’s a lovely, flowing, interesting but not at all confusing melody. This is also a tune I associate with the minister who helped me discern my call, Linda Hoddy – she often used another hymn set to this tune, From All the Fret and Fever of the Day (number 90), and I have fond memories of her service to my home congregation – particularly the music and creativity.

And so jumping in to sing was easy – no awkward plunking out of notes on the keyboard app on my phone, no hunting through hymnody websites for a recording of the tune. I was able to dive right in without a second glance at the melody, so that I could read and sing the lyrics confidently.

Seek not afar for beauty; lo, it glows
in dew-wet grasses all about your feet,
in birds, in sunshine, childish faces sweet,
in stars and mountain summits topped with snows.

Go not abroad for happiness; behold
it is a flower blooming at your door.
Bring love and laughter home, and evermore
joy shall be yours as changing years unfold.

In wonder-workings or some bush aflame,
we look for Truth and fancy it concealed;
but in earth’s common things it stands revealed,
while grass and flowers and stars spell out the name.

I then giggled, because here’s another ABBA rhyme scheme, which I have a rule about. And I feel conflicted, because I love this hymn but the off-kilter rhyme caught me every time I ended a verse; after getting to “unfold” I actually stopped and looked at the lyrics and giggled when I saw the ABBA, knowing I once gave it a pass. But as much as it bugs me, I still am into this hymn.

Mostly because of the theological reason I started to giggle.

Go back and read the first and second verses. I’ll wait.

[Kimberley hums “Girl from Ipanema” to herself]

Okay, so you see how wonderfully sixth source/seventh principle it is? Lovely! Celebrate nature and the happiness it brings, look at how easy it is to find love and blessings. Very earthly, very humanist-in-nature. Awesome. Now look at the third verse.

Why look – it invokes Old Testament miracles. It invokes a Creator. Commence theological giggling. Yes, this is a theistic hymn. And what’s interesting is how many of these hymns in the “World of Nature” section ultimately are. It’s not surprising, given how theistic and rather Christian many of the transcendentalists were. We forget that, because the left turn Emerson and Thoreau took was so radical for its time. We remember how focused on humanity and nature they were, and we forget how theistic they were. So I delight in hymns like this that sneak in the reminders of our theological foundations.

Plus, this hymn really works for me and my theology – as I suspect it does for many Unitarian Universalists. But it’s a real lesson in ‘read all the lyrics’ – just as some titles mislead, sometimes the turn of the poem and the meaning of the piece doesn’t happen until the last verse.

Tee hee.