A nice hymn for episcopal meetings

O God of earth and altar,
bow down and hear our cry,
our earthly rulers falter,
our people drift and die;
the walls of gold entomb us,
the swords of scorn divide,
take not thy thunder from us,
but take away our pride.

From all that terror teaches,
from lies of tongue and pen,
from all the easy speeches
that comfort cruel men,
from sale and profanation
of honor, and the sword,
from sleep and from damnation,
deliver us, good Lord!

Tie in a living tether
the prince and priest and thrall,
bind all our lives together,
smite us and save us all;
in ire and exultation
aflame with faith, and free,
lift up a living nation, 
a single sword to thee.

The tune selected for this hymn (by GK, no less) is "The King's Lynn" -- which is a very nice melody in that masterpiece of hymnody, The English Hymnal of 1906. I wouldn't know which of the eight tones would fit. It is clearly idiomela.

I have all kinds of hymnals in my library, including some spiral-ring bound scripture-and-praise chorus sets from the ebullient 70s and some gaither anthologies from indeterminate metaphysical spaces. I have some soft bound shaped notes and southern gospel collections, too.

But I would really like this particular English Hymnal in question. It is hard to find. Later on, it was edited in 1933 by one of my five favorite composers, Ralph Vaughn Williams: in one volume some of the best parings of lyric and music are bound together.

Imagine singing hymns drawn from Tallis' Canon, as opposed to some jury-rigged escapade from "Hymns of Praise," in which the "Skaters' Waltz" by Émile Waldteufel is somehow enjoined to an eschatological ditty (i.e., "maybe morning, maybe noon, maybe evening and maybe soon").

Au contraire. The true sort of hymn above is entitled, endearingly, "O God of Earth and Altar." Its lyrics are trenchant, perhaps too much so, for the softened tastes of today. Years and decades of unremitting linguistic decline in Biblical and liturgical translation have done this.

I suppose the intentions were good. We wanted something the "common people" -- whoever they were -- could easily understand. So under the rubric of the vernacular, and occasionally calling up the legacy of Saints Cyril and Methodios, we rendered sacred text into lines that were at least mundane, if not downright pedestrian. 

It is because of the state of our language that our God is too small. He (or She or It or whatever is voted on as God for the day) is barely more than an extrapolation of American psychotherapy, but is nevertheless blamed for disappointment and grievance.

The smallness of our language, too, partly accounts for the shabbiness of our working faith. We cannot piously choose and follow leaders. We haven't a clue how to lead and serve this country with winsome confidence and humble authority. We are stymied by the dichotomous choice of either marching for a Palin or a Santorum, or drearily giving assent to statism and redefinitions of marriage.

Language, today, is a shallow pool. It is pretty on a nice day, but it scatters when windblown and disappears under a sheet of dead leaves.

Thus, Twitter politicians of all stripes, and regrettable. Thus even Orthodoxy mediated by androgynous committees, hiding behind acronyms just like corporations learned to replace surnames with no-names.

Thunder. Damnation. Terror. Drift and die. 

How long has it been since you've sung these words, or even mentioned them, except in the schoolboy rush of forbidden vulgarity -- and the erstwhile "forbiddenness" is quickly evaporating?

How about a sword? 

But no, I forget myself: the church is but a hospital, and does not talk like that. Perhaps that is why we eschew the annunciation of the Apocalypse in the Liturgy.

We are far more interested in disciplining children and leaping upon stock opportunities than in noticing the encroaching "walls of gold," and the mortifying "easy speeches that comfort cruel men."

Our modern man language helps us nicely forget what pains us to know.

To counteract this morphine OD, let us sing:

O God of earth and altar,
bow down and hear our cry,
our earthly rulers falter,
our people drift and die;
the walls of gold entomb us,
the swords of scorn divide,
take not thy thunder from us,
but take away our pride.

Comments

[jcw]

"The King's Lynn" : http://www.ccel.org/cceh/0012/001264a.pdf

[FrGregACCA]

Perhaps it is impossible that a people lose their pride without losing their thunder. Look at Germany.

I have long loved this hymn.

[Fr. Jonathan]

Thanks Joshua. I'll practice it up on the ivories.

And Fr. Greg, I like this hymn too, but it won't get much airplay, especially in the churchman culture.

[HK]

"Bow down and hear our cry..."
God forbid that we would worship a God that isn't sitting on a couch with us munching on chips while compassionately listening to us pour out our many hurts and needs while He writes it all down on His stone tablet and then waves His magic wand and makes all of our dreams come true while checking off each item on OUR to do list on His celestial notepad.
That God would have to bow down and love us as a Tender Father yet All Powerful Creator has been lost in this commercial narcissistic age.

[Fr. Jonathan]

Thank you, HK.

I wouldn't bow down without you.

[iceppeercusty]

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