The Wonderful Cross

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.

See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

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Isaac Watts wrote "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross" in preparation for a communion service in 1707. Originally, the hymn was named "Crucifixion to the World by the Cross of Christ," following the practice of the day to summarize a hymn's theme in the title. It was first published in 1707 in Watt's collection Hymns and Spiritual Songs.

Watts wrote five stanzas for the original version of "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross." However, he put his fourth stanza in brackets, indicating it was the most likely one to be left out, if need be:

"His dying crimson, like a robe,
Spreads o'er His body on the tree:
Then am I dead to all the globe,
And all the globe is dead to me."

Other alterations have been made to this hymn through the years. For example, line 2 originally read "Young Prince of Glory," but in the second edition of the hymnal, Watts changed it to "When God, the Mighty Maker, died." It has also been "When Christ, the Lord of Glory, died," "When Christ, the Great Redeemer, died," and "When Christ, the Great Creator, died." In the nineteenth century there were numerous collections with extensive alterations to the hymn.

"When I Survey The Wondrous Cross" is considered one of the finest hymns ever written. It's the first known hymn to be written in the first person, introducing a personal religious experience rather than limiting itself to doctrine.

In Watts' day such hymns were termed "hymns of human composure" and they stirred up great controversy. At the time, congregational singing was predominately ponderous repetitions of the Psalms. But this hymn gave Christians of Watts' day a way to express a deeply personal gratitude to their Savior. The well-loved song continues to stir our hearts today.

(from the website of The Center For Church Music, Songs & Hymns)

This morning's chancel choir anthem at the Ballyhoo United Methodist Church

"I Sing the Mighty Power of God"
Isaac Watts, 1715

I sing the mighty power of God,
that made the mountains rise,
That spread the flowing seas abroad,
and built the lofty skies.
I sing the wisdom that ordained
the sun to rule the day;
The moon shines full at God's command,
and all the stars obey.

I sing the goodness of the Lord,
who filled the earth with food,
Who formed the creatures through the Word,
and then pronounced them good.
Lord, how Thy wonders are displayed,
wherever I turn my eye,
If I survey the ground I tread,
or gaze upon the sky.

There's not a plant or flower below,
but makes Thy glories known,
And clouds arise, and tempests blow,
by order from Thy throne;
While all that borrows life from Thee
is ever in Thy care;
And everywhere that we can be,
Thou, God art present there.

Sunday night poetry

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover --
Dips -- evades -- teases -- deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.

--Emily Dickinson

Poetry moment

IS bliss, then, such abyss
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?

I ’d rather suit my foot
Than save my boot.
For yet to buy another pair
Is possible
At any fair.

But bliss is sold just once;
The patent lost
None buy it any more.

Happiness

Felices

We count them happy who have richly known

The sweets of life, the sunshine on the hills,

The mosses in the valley, love that fills

The heart with tears as fragrant as thine own,

O tender moonlight lily, over-blown,

When the inevitable season wills,

By gentle winds beside thy native rills--

We count them happy, yet not these alone.

There is a Crown of Thorns, Way of the Cross,

Consuming Fire that burns the spirit pure.

By luster of the gold set free from dross,

By light of heaven seen best through earth's obscure,

By the exceeding gain that waits on loss--

Behold, we count them happy who endure.

Katharine Lee Bates, 1911
America the Beautiful and Other Poems

Faith

O world, thou choosest not the better part!

It is not wisdom to be only wise,

And on the inward vision close the eyes,

But it is wisdom to believe the heart.

Columbus found a world, and had no chart,

Save one that faith deciphered in the skies;

To trust the soul's invincible surmise

Was all his science and his only art.

Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine

That lights the pathway but one step ahead

Across a void of mystery and dread.

Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine

By which alone the mortal heart is led

Unto the thinking of the thought divine.

George Santayana, 1863-1952

Attention Deficit Migraine

I thought that this particular Emily Dickinson poem suited me this evening, both from a "disjointed thoughts" angle and a "my head is killing me" angle:

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind --
As if my Brain had split --
I tried to match it -- Seam by Seam --
But could not make it fit.

The thought behind, I strove to join
Unto the thought before --
But Sequence ravelled out of Sound
Like Balls -- upon a Floor.

or, in other words:

Having a Scattered Brain can be exhausting sometimes, just from the sheer effort it takes to keep myself focused. Sometimes it doesn't do any good to try. Other times I want it so badly that I end up with a headache afterward. That's what I did tonight at band rehearsal.

I'm already vaguely dissatisfied... not with the talent level, because the guys are incredibly talented, but with the built-in inability to stray from the EXACT COPY of the CD sound. We have to match it. Some of it is necessary, since we're using a click track. But when we can't add a part or make it "our own" because it's not on the original CD recording?

I also can't tell if it's just because I had the beginnings of a headache all day anyway and am predisposed to irritation anyway.

I admit that I'm chafing a little under the strain of playing along with a pre-recorded set of tracks... I know it's got to be beneficial for me to learn to do this, but the free-spirited artist in me fights against the bit constantly. I don't wear discipline well.

Poetry I like

Has nothing whatsoever to do with MLK Day, but I saw this poem this morning on Poetry Daily and thought it was so, so sweet. Not syrupy, but filled with resonant imagery -- at least for me. I hope you can appreciate it, too.

A Gentle Man
by Elise Partridge (1923-2005)

Barely nineteen, volunteered for the war.
On a sweaty Pacific island
monitored radar,
hearing pilots rumble off
into black;

silently noted
which friends didn't come back.
One August dawn,
only wind-rattled palms.
He was grateful just to sail home.

Later, with wife and sons, he'd scan the sky
for blips of green—
hummingbirds swooping to his feeder.
Methodical at every task,
each dawn, for them, he'd daub it clean.

Always the right word, or none;
a grin and a nod meant good.
Helped before he was asked.
Read to his sons, dried dishes,
cleared neighbors' drives, hewed their wood.

At eighty, quavering hands;
teetering on each threshold.
Tenderly he'd loop
his wife's last dahlias with string
so they could stand.

From Poetry Daily

Now Over the
Empty Apartment

You in the door look back
and are no longer there,

although that is the hall
through which you walked a hundred times
thinking well, what of it?—awake

in the middle of the night—

and that is the window where the sky drew back & night came on

where the planes banked in
scheduled and flashing from the west—

Your hand was pulling shut the shade
and mornings, your hand pulled it up again

though you are not there, you in the door going over the days,
going as a wave goes, that is,

nowhere, and all your lovers now? Those real,
imagined? The sad,
gratified sighs?

All that while,
through the evenings, didn't something
quietly call,

something off in the marginal light,

in the vapor through which
the faces of passengers dimmed

and flickered? That slight
rivering, insistent

beneath the blare of the television, beneath you as well, at the surface

busy with addresses, with pictures & books. You crowded the place,
you in the door

who, looking back now—over the hallway, the shine
of the relentless floor—

can no longer be sure

you are the person indeed who had that body
and lived days in it there.

--a poem by Kate Northrop, from Poetry Daily.