Let all mortal flesh keep silence
Dec. 9th, 2012 02:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ancientandmodernLet all mortal flesh keep silence,
And with fear and trembling stand;
Ponder nothing earthly minded,
For with blessing in His hand,
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
Our full homage to demand.
King of kings, yet born of Mary,
As of old on earth He stood,
Lord of lords, in human vesture,
In the body and the blood;
He will give to all the faithful
His own self for heavenly food.
Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
As the Light of light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.
At His feet the six winged seraph,
Cherubim with sleepless eye,
Veil their faces to the presence,
As with ceaseless voice they cry:
Alleluia, Alleluia
Alleluia, Lord Most High!
When I was a chaplaincy assistant and had control over the hymnboard, I used to schedule this one at least twice a term. It sits happily in both the Advent and the Holy Communion sections of the hymnbook, and it is, quite literally, marvellous. It conveys as few hymns do the sheer awe of the mystery of the incarnation, that the Light of Light is here, with us.
Listening to it just now I was very forcibly reminded of Jacob, sleeping in the desert, and seeing the ladder that linked heaven and earth. Here is heaven coming to earth, here is God coming to the ordinary, the things that seemed quite unremarkable, and it is terrifying.
I'm writing now as night falls. A purple-black cloud has fallen over the horizon, quenching the last pale band of light. This hymn recalls the promise of glory that is coming. That has come. That is with us, if we only look.
This video is a little rough around the edges: in some places the microphone just can't cope with the volume, can't convey the reality. (I like the Duruflé interlude, too.)
This one, on the other hand, completely misses the point, if you ask me. Far too sanitised and sentimental:
The words are translated from the Greek Liturgy of Saint James - possibly the oldest surviving Christian liturgy, the James in question being Jesus' half-brother - by Gerard Moultrie (apparently the only thing he wrote that has survived in popular church music into the twenty-first century). The ultimate root is Habbakkuk 2.20, "Let all the earth keep silence before him".
The music is a French carol tune (Jésus Christ s'habille en pauvre, remarkably close to what it got appropriated for); the two appear to have been brought together for the first time in the English Hymnal, 1906. An inspired choice: the otherworldly, mystical atmosphere of the minor key, the slow, deliberate melisma in the penultimate line. The music ascends more than it descends, but stays within its octave; meanwhile, the text reaches down, and we end on the same note where we began. God is here, was already where we were standing, here within the ordinary, making it remarkable. Sing it, and it sends shivers up the spine.
And with fear and trembling stand;
Ponder nothing earthly minded,
For with blessing in His hand,
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
Our full homage to demand.
King of kings, yet born of Mary,
As of old on earth He stood,
Lord of lords, in human vesture,
In the body and the blood;
He will give to all the faithful
His own self for heavenly food.
Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
As the Light of light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.
At His feet the six winged seraph,
Cherubim with sleepless eye,
Veil their faces to the presence,
As with ceaseless voice they cry:
Alleluia, Alleluia
Alleluia, Lord Most High!
When I was a chaplaincy assistant and had control over the hymnboard, I used to schedule this one at least twice a term. It sits happily in both the Advent and the Holy Communion sections of the hymnbook, and it is, quite literally, marvellous. It conveys as few hymns do the sheer awe of the mystery of the incarnation, that the Light of Light is here, with us.
Listening to it just now I was very forcibly reminded of Jacob, sleeping in the desert, and seeing the ladder that linked heaven and earth. Here is heaven coming to earth, here is God coming to the ordinary, the things that seemed quite unremarkable, and it is terrifying.
I'm writing now as night falls. A purple-black cloud has fallen over the horizon, quenching the last pale band of light. This hymn recalls the promise of glory that is coming. That has come. That is with us, if we only look.
This video is a little rough around the edges: in some places the microphone just can't cope with the volume, can't convey the reality. (I like the Duruflé interlude, too.)
This one, on the other hand, completely misses the point, if you ask me. Far too sanitised and sentimental:
The words are translated from the Greek Liturgy of Saint James - possibly the oldest surviving Christian liturgy, the James in question being Jesus' half-brother - by Gerard Moultrie (apparently the only thing he wrote that has survived in popular church music into the twenty-first century). The ultimate root is Habbakkuk 2.20, "Let all the earth keep silence before him".
The music is a French carol tune (Jésus Christ s'habille en pauvre, remarkably close to what it got appropriated for); the two appear to have been brought together for the first time in the English Hymnal, 1906. An inspired choice: the otherworldly, mystical atmosphere of the minor key, the slow, deliberate melisma in the penultimate line. The music ascends more than it descends, but stays within its octave; meanwhile, the text reaches down, and we end on the same note where we began. God is here, was already where we were standing, here within the ordinary, making it remarkable. Sing it, and it sends shivers up the spine.