O For the Wings of a Dove

I am privileged to go to a church that specialises in sublime music, as well as great sermons and liturgy.

Here's what we got today:



The text is from Psalm 55, which we read out loud, as well:

Hear my prayer, O God, incline Thine ear!
Thyself from my petition do not hide.
Take heed to me! Hear how in prayer I mourn to Thee,
Without Thee all is dark, I have no guide.
The enemy shouteth, The godless come fast!
Iniquity, hatred, upon me they cast!
The wicked oppress me, Ah where shall I fly?
Perplexed and bewildered, O God, hear my cry!
My heart is sorely pained, within my breast,
my soul with deathly terror is oppressed,
trembling and fearfulness upon me fall,
with horror overwhelmed, Lord, hear me call,

O for the wings, for the wings of a dove!
Far away, far away would I rove!
In the wilderness build me a nest,
and remain there for ever at rest.

___________________

Mendelssohn's original text was in German, of course, and it's only fair that you get a chance to see that language!

Hör mein Bitten, Herr, neige dich zu mir,
auf deines Kindes Stimme habe acht! Ich bin allein;
wer wird mein Tröster und Helfer sein?
Ich irre den Pfad in dunkler Nacht!
Die Feinde sie drohen und heben ihr Haupt:
"Wo ist nun der Retter, an den wir geglaubt?"
Sie lästern sie täglich, sie stellen uns nach
und halten die Frommen in Knechtschaft und Schmach.
Mich fasst des Todes Furcht bei ihrem Dräu'n.
Sie sind unzählige - Gott, hör mein Fleh'n!
Herr, kämpfe du für mich. Gott hör mein Fleh'n.

O, könnt' ich fliegen wie Tauben dahin,
weit hinweg von den Feinden zu flieh'n,
in die Welt eilt' ich fort,
fände Ruh an schattigem Ort.

O könnt' ich fliegen wie Tauben dahin,
Weit hinweg vor dem Feinde zu fliehen!
In die Wüste eilt ich dann fort,
Fände Ruhe am schättigen Ort.

Die Bibelforscher

(I don't know why I haven't posted this before, but this is probably my poetic discovery of 2011.)

Die Bibelforscher

For the Protestant martyrs of the Third Reich

By Waldo Williams (as translated from the Welsh by Rowan Williams)

Earth is a hard text to read; but the king
has put his message in our hands, for us to carry
sweating, whether the trumpets of his court
sound near or far. So for these men:
they were the bearers of the royal writ,
clinging to it through spite and hurts and wounding.

The earth's round fullness is not like a parable, where meaning
breaks through, a flash of lightning, in the humid, heavy dusk;
imagination will not conjure into flesh the depths
of fire and crystal sealed under castle walls of wax, but still
they keep their witness pure in Buchenwald,
pure in the crucible of hate penning them in.

They closed their eyes to doors that might have opened
if they had put their names to words of cowardice;
they took their stand, backs to the wall, face to face with savagery,
and died there, with their filth and piss flowing together,
arriving at the gates of heaven,
their fists still clenched on what the king had written.

Earth is a hard text to read. But what we can be certain of
is that screaming mob is insubstantial mist;
in the clear sky, the thundering assertions fade to nothing.
There the Lamb's song is sung, and what it celebrates
is the apocalypse of a glory
pain lays bare.