Another gorgeous tune for the season. The end of days seems like a scary concept, but this hymn reminds us that what we’re really praying for is the beginning of the new age when God’s love and justice will be extended to all people.
The King shall come when morning dawns,
and light triumphant breaks;
when beauty gilds the eastern hills
and life to joy awakes.
Not, as of old, a little child,
to bear, and fight, and die,
but crowned with glory like the sun
that lights the morning sky.
The King shall come when morning dawns
and earth’s dark night is past;
O haste the rising of that morn,
the day that e’er shall last;
and let the endless bliss begin,
by weary saints foretold,
when right shall triumph over wrong,
and truth shall be extolled.
The King shall come when morning dawns
and light and beauty brings:
Hail, Christ the Lord! Thy people come,
come quickly, King of kings.
Music: St. Stephen Wiliam Jones (18th C)
Words: Greek hymn, trans. John Brownlie (20thC)
Apocalyptic readings from the Book of Revelation and the Hebrew Prophets feature prominently in the lectionary for this season of Advent, which looks forward not only to our commemoration of Christ’s birth, but to his second coming. Johnny Cash’s “The Man Comes Around”, the title song from his last (and perhaps greatest) album, weaves these Biblical images into a compelling ballad. The end times are a favorite subject in popular Southern Gospel music, but often handled with a peppy eagerness that I find unnerving even while I sing along to the catchy tunes. Not Cash’s version. It’s rough-hewn, grim, and thrilling.
And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder: One of the four beasts saying: “Come and see.” And I saw. And behold, a white horse.
There’s a man goin’ ’round takin’ names. An’ he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won’t be treated all the same. There’ll be a golden ladder reaching down. When the man comes around.
The hairs on your arm will stand up. At the terror in each sip and in each sup. For you partake of that last offered cup, Or disappear into the potter’s ground. When the man comes around.
Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers. One hundred million angels singin’. Multitudes are marching to the big kettle drum. Voices callin’, voices cryin’. Some are born an’ some are dyin’. It’s Alpha’s and Omega’s Kingdom come.
And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree. The virgins are all trimming their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree. It’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks.
Till Armageddon, no Shalam, no Shalom. Then the father hen will call his chickens home. The wise men will bow down before the throne. And at his feet they’ll cast their golden crown. When the man comes around.
Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still. Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still. Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still. Listen to the words long written down, When the man comes around.
Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers. One hundred million angels singin’. Multitudes are marchin’ to the big kettle drum. Voices callin’, voices cryin’. Some are born an’ some are dyin’. It’s Alpha’s and Omega’s Kingdom come.
And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree. The virgins are all trimming their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree. It’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks.
In measured hundredweight and penny pound. When the man comes around.
And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts, And I looked and behold: a pale horse. And his name, that sat on him, was Death. And Hell followed with him.
Advent is an occasion to learn some lesser-known hymns that are as beautiful and haunting as any Christmas carol, and haven’t been ruined by Alvin and the Chipmunks piping them over the speakers at Wal-Mart. The Daily Office today featured one of my favorites (click here to sing along):
“How far from home?” I asked as on
I bent my steps – the Watchman spake:
“The long, dark night is almost gone,
the morning soon will break.
Then, weep no more,but speed your flight,
with Hope’s bright star your guiding ray;
’til you shall reach the realms of light,
in everlasting day.”
I asked the travelers in the way,
this was their soul-inspiring song:
“With courage bold,we’ll journey today;
the road won’t be too long.
Then, weep no more, but well endure,
the highway ’til your work is done.
For this we know, the prize is sure,
and victory will be won.”
I asked again; earth, sea, and sun
seemed with one voice to make reply:
“Time’s wasting sands are nearly run,
eternity is nigh.
Then, weep no more,with warning tones,
portentous sights are thickening round;
the whole creation waiting groans,
to hear the trumpet sound.”
Not far from home? O, blessed thought!
The traveler’s lonely heart to cheer;
which oft a healing balm has brought
and dried the mourner’s tear.
Then, weep no more since we shall meet
where weary footsteps never roam.
Our trials past, our joys complete,
safe in our Maker’s home.
Words: Annie Rebekah Smith (19th C)
Music: Tis Midnight Hour (anonymous)
Lord i’m thankful for my blessings
everything that you gave
Times when danger was around me
My life lord you saved
Where would I be without your love
Where would I be without your grace
You didn’t have to do it but I’m glad you did
Can’t pretend that what I got
I got it on my own
Every move that i made
Can’t say I never been wrong
When I fell you picked me up again
Thought I brought it on myself
I can always depend on you
Whenever I need help
Lord i’m thankful for my blessings
everything that you gave
Times when danger was around me
My life lord you saved
Where would I be without your love
Where would I be without your grace
You didn’t have to do it but I’m glad you did
The next time you go to sleep
And you wake up alright
Remember that he kept you safe
And warm all through the night
Lift your hands and lift them high
And this is what you say
Lord you didn’t have to give me
One more day
Lord i’m thankful for my blessings
everything that you gave
Times when danger was around me
My life lord you saved
Where would I be without your love
Where would I be without your grace
You didn’t have to do it but I’m glad you did
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you
It’s plain to see
all that he’s done for me
I thank you for everything
I live my life
So I can let the world
know that I am
Lord i’m thankful for my blessings
everything that you gave
Times when danger was around me
My life lord you saved
Where would I be without your love
Where would I be without your grace
You didn’t have to do it but I’m glad you did
Ten years ago, during the time of personal crisis that led to my conversion, I used to listen to the WOW 1999 album over and over. (WOW is a CD series that compiles the year’s best contemporary Christian and gospel music.) Avalon’s “Testify to Love” was one of my very favorites. It still brings me joy today.
[Verse 1:]
All the colors
of the rainbow
All the voices of the wind
Every dream
that reaches out
That reaches out to find
where love begins
Every word of every story
Every star in every sky (in every sky)
Every corner of creation
lives to testify
[Chorus:]
For as long as I shall live
I will testify to love
I’ll be a witness in the silences
When words are not enough
With every breath I take
I will give thanks to God above
For as long as I shall live
I will testify to love
[Verse 2:]
From the mountains to the valleys
From the rivers to the seas (rivers to the seas)
Every hand that reaches out
Every hand that reaches out
to offer peace (give peace a chance)
Every simple act of mercy
Every step to kingdom come (to kingdom come)
All the hope in every heart will
Speak what love has done
(Repeat Chorus)
[Bridge 1:]
Colors of the rainbow
Voices of the wind
Dream that reaches out
Where love Begins
Word of every story
Star of every sky
Corner of creation
Testify
[Bridge 2:]
Mountains to the valleys
Rivers to the seas
Hand that reaches out
To offer peace
Simple act of mercy
Step to kingdom come
Every heart will speak
What love has done
[Repeat Bridge 1]
[This is the 2nd chorus]
(For as long as I shall live, I’ll testify, testify
All my life, I’ll testify)For as long as I shall live
I will testify to love
I’ll be a witness in the silences
When words are not enough
(Every breath I take, give thanks and testify, testify)
With every breath I take
I will give thanks to God above
For as long as I shall live
I will testify
[Repeat Chorus]
[Repeat 2nd chorus]
[End: Sung along with the added parts in 2nd chorus]
Testify Your way
Testify Your truth
Testify Your life
Your love and mercy
(Repeat End)
Evangelical author Andy Crouch has an eclectic, thought-provoking new blog called Culture Making, based on his award-winning book of the same name, which explores ways for Christians to engage with and transform contemporary culture through the arts. This week’s “Five Questions” feature invites reflections on “zombies as cultural artifact”:
What do zombies assume about the way the world is?
…Zombies embody our greatest fears about ourselves. Our bodies can betray us. Our minds and souls will not exist. Our bodies will survive beyond any sentient manner of control, but be subject to desires and actions alien to who we are. Once we are taken over, we will betray and hurt those we love. Even if we are not subject to any of these things, but somehow survive, life will be unbearable and a constant struggle. There is no escape because man is the ultimate predator, and there is no place that man has not or cannot be.
Of course, there are positives for survivors or consumers of the zombie genre. The enemy is clear and can be eliminated as opposed to real life. It is a symptom of a culture that feels helpless in the face of big business and big government. Even “alternative” culture gets assimilated into the mainstream, so there feels like there is no escape. “Shaun of the Dead” makes this point hilariously: there is no difference between daily life and the apocalypse. You’ll still get the paper, try to make up with your girlfriend and hang out with your friends at the local pub. The only difference is that you will not be dubbed a loser for not having a job or more lofty goals. You just need to survive. —Sarah G. Vincent
For vampires and Christians alike, blood is the vital, life-giving force. But for zombies (and secularists) the desire is for brains and brains alone. Thus zombies seem to be expressions of a sort of cultural rationalism or materialism. The vampiric craving for blood, at least in its pre-modern origins, turns the Christian eucharist on its head. But zombies do away with blood altogether.
Therefore, zombies assume that the brain, not the blood, is what imparts meaning and life to the world. Zombies are the expression of the deepest fears of the secularized mind. —Tickletext
What comes through to the bedded boy, the laid-down boy,
the boy dark as church, weathering a sleep
fallen in childhood — all my hope
the boy wiped and leaking, the boy the body feeding
the house with its banked fires,
center of our constellation on God
is founded what comes to us through the body
is like practicing music
before anyone arrives, the nave’s silence maple thick
and sun after sun content to fall through change and chance through dust
but no word, should that be enough?
What is enough for the boy tucked and sheeted,
sung favorites, insensate to our tender gloves, still my trust rituals of a retired flag —
what funeral, what cure?
How much his life for ours springeth out of naught —
oh, let there be an inside
to this night, this boy bread,
in his flesh a listener
hidden like God in wine.
**** The tune mentioned in the title is #665 in the 1982 Episcopal Hymnal, written by Herbert Howells to accompany the poem “All My Hope on God Is Founded”. This video from Westminster Abbey includes captioned lyrics.
I’ve always thought of myself as a person who shunned emotional drama, but in this as in so many things, I’ve come to realize that I’m not much different from the rest of the human race. “Love” is many things besides eros: attachment to parents or parent figures, idealization of a community or institution, intimate friendship, or passionate self-projection into a future that may not come true. The fact that my romantic history is as pleasantly simple as a mayonnaise sandwich has not spared me these other forms of rapture and heartbreak.
An enduring dilemma in my spiritual life is how to cherish the world and its people without seeking more solace there than perishable and imperfect human beings can give; how to keep an open heart without trusting foolishly and prematurely. In the Book of Common Prayer, we ask God “that, with you as our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things temporal, that we lose not the things eternal” (Collect for Proper 12).
But I’ve been having a crisis of faith lately about the proper priority of Jesus’ two great commandments. Asceticism and hard-heartedness are common overreactions to the painfulness of human love. I see Christians invoking God’s sovereignty as a reason to be deaf to the suffering of non-Christians supposedly condemned to hell, or same-sex-oriented people supposedly condemned to lives of loneliness and deception. God’s love is not enough, or everyone would be a monk.
As for a “personal relationship with Jesus”, I don’t know how I would distinguish that from talking to my novel characters. I’ve written a lot on this blog about trusting one’s own perceptions, not because they’re always correct, but because one has no choice. I would really like to feel that Jesus was as real to me as the person sitting next to me on the subway. Still, I’ve been hurt so badly by people who put ideology ahead of compassion, that I am paranoid that this “Jesus” in my head would become a construct that diminishes my investment in the here and now. I suppose that if that happened, it would be a sign that it wasn’t the real Jesus? By their fruits you shall know them…
I’m just the pieces of the man I used to be
Too many bitter tears are raining down on me
I’m far away from home
And I’ve been facing this alone
For much too long
I feel like no-one ever told the truth to me
About growing up and what a struggle it would be
In my tangled state of mind
I’ve been looking back to find
Where I went wrong
Too much love will kill you
If you can’t make up your mind
Torn between the lover
And the love you leave behind
You’re headed for disaster
‘cos you never read the signs
Too much love will kill you
Every time
I’m just the shadow of the man I used to be
And it seems like there’s no way out of this for me
I used to bring you sunshine
Now all I ever do is bring you down
How would it be if you were standing in my shoes
Can’t you see that it’s impossible to choose
No there’s no making sense of it
Every way I go I’m bound to lose
Too much love will kill you
Just as sure as none at all
It’ll drain the power that’s in you
Make you plead and scream and crawl
And the pain will make you crazy
You’re the victim of your crime
Too much love will kill you
Every time
Too much love will kill you
It’ll make your life a lie
Yes, too much love will kill you
And you won’t understand why
You’d give your life, you’d sell your soul
But here it comes again
Too much love will kill you
In the end…
In the end.
We’re in New York City, probably through the rest of October, visiting family on the Upper East Side and making plans for a new project. While Adam manages his Northampton activist campaigns from afar, I have been “doing research for the novel”, which to the untrained eye might look like shopping for clothes. Fortunately, here is novelist Nick Hornby, in an interview on the literary social-networking site Goodreads, to ease my guilt:
GR: The idea of wasting time is a strong theme in your work. The characters of your novels often share a disability to engage fully with life—a motif that can be traced back to your memoir, Fever Pitch. Do you see this as one of life’s primary challenges?
NH: The trouble is, of course, that it’s a challenge one can never win. I refuse to accept that the people who have never wasted a second of their lives in the conventional sense, the people who climb mountains and run for high office and find cures for diseases, have succeeded in engaging fully with life. They’re the ones with the damaged relationships and the piles of unread novels, the people who don’t know what Little Walter sounds like…I’m frustrated by how much time has slipped by in my own life, and I’ve wasted more time than most, but I’m not sure I’d feel any better if I’d been more productive. For a start, my first couple of books were a product of all the times I’d wasted at football matches and in record stores.
Later
in the interview, Hornby’s nostalgia about his intense relationship to his small record collection reminded me how I felt about the few poetry books I owned as a teenager.
NH: I think I used to obsess over albums simply because I didn’t have very many. Back when I started listening to music, your record collection began with one album. And then, a couple of weeks later, when you’d got the pocket money together, it became two, and so on. And that meant you had a pretty intense relationship with the albums you owned in your teenage years. Now it’s different. My nieces and nephews ask me to fill up their iPods. I give them a couple hundred albums with the flick of a mouse. I can’t really imagine what that is like, being presented with the history of rock ‘n’ roll like that.
The books that somewhat randomly fetched up on my
shelf, which I reread more closely than anything I’ve bought since,
included Diane Wakoski’s Emerald Ice, the collected poems of Auden, Eliot, and Sexton, the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, Robert Hass’s Field Guide and Praise, Gregory Corso’s Gasoline, and Robert Kelly‘s The Mill of Particulars.
This last, which I received as a 16th birthday gift from Alissa Quart,
fascinated me even though (or because) I didn’t understand much of it.
I was a real high-modernist in those days; Allen Ginsberg gave a reading at our high school (!!) and I commiserated with my friend Nick about what a poseur the great man was. Now Nick is a priest and I am writing the great gay Christian novel. “I saw the best minds of my generation…”
In honor of life’s unforeseeable twists and turns, and Hornby’s passion for rock music, I’ll close with a favorite song from one of the few non-classical cassettes I owned in the 1980s (see “high-modernist” above). It’s still so very true.
Well baby, there you stand
With your little head, down in your hand
Oh, my god, you can’t believe it‘s happening
Again
Your baby‘s gone, and you‘re all alone
And it looks like the end.
And you‘re back out on the street.
And you‘re tryin‘ to remember.
How will you start it over?
You don‘t know what became.
You don’t care much for a stranger‘s touch,
But you can‘t hold your man.
You never thought you‘d be alone this far
Down the line
And I know what’s been on your mind
You’re afraid it’s all been wasted time
The autumn leaves have got you thinking
About the first time that you fell
You didn’t love the boy too much, no, no
You just loved the boy too well, farewell
So you live from day to day, and you dream
About tomorrow, oh.
And the hours go by like minutes
And the shadows come to stay
So you take a little something to
Make them go away
And I could have done so many things, baby
If I could only stop my mind from wondrin’ what
I left behind and from worrying ’bout this wasted time
Ooh, another love has come and gone
Ooh, and the years keep rushing on
I remember what you told me before you went out on your own:
sometimes to keep it together, we got to leave it alone.
So you can get on with your search, baby, and I can
Get on with mine
And maybe someday we will find, that it wasn’t really
Wasted time