Christmas Carol

I didn't think I would be able to produce a Christmas carol this year; not enough energy and too much going on.  But this past Monday a rudimentary melody and the words started coming to me; by Tuesday the poem was pretty well finished and I had the notes of the soprano/unison line written down; on Wednesday (or was it Thursday-- my short term memory stinks) I downloaded the MuseScore free software and started in on the notation; and by Thursday and Friday I had the thing pretty well done.

And here it is:


O brothers, sisters, let us sing,
Alleluia, allelu,
How came the birth of Christ our King,
Allelu, alleluia.
Once Earth was new, and we were free,
But Adam sinned most dreadfully
And sold us all to slavery,
Allelu, alleluia.

In death's dark prison we were bound,
Alleluia, allelu,
And in ourselves no hope we found,
Hosanna, alleluia.
But God looked down on our distress,
His oath on Abram He did rest,
That through him, mankind would be bless'd,
Hosanna, alleluia.

The prophets bold foretold the day,
Alleluia, allelu,
When grace would sweep our guilt away,
Allelu, alleluia,
When to us, fearful and forlorn,
A holy Savior would be born
To dwell with us, that blessed morn,
Gloria, alleluia!

So, humble, in a manger laid,
Alleluia, allelu,
Jesus was born of mortal maid,
Gloria, alleluia!
The very Son of God was He,
But bent He to our frailty
And shared our doomed humanity,
Allelu, alleluia!

Beside Him, lamb and oxen stood,
Alleluia, allelu,
And He became the Lamb of God,
Hosanna, allelu!
Upon His cross He off'ring made
Of His own flesh, His might displayed,
Now sin and Satan are dismayed,
Allelu, alleluia!

Then Christ our Savior burst the grave,
Alleluia, allelu!
And to His faithful, life He gave,
Allelu, alleluia!
Before the angels now He names
Us brothers, sisters-- unashamed
Of us His holy blood reclaims,
Gloria, alleluia!

Now we from death have been set free,
Alleluia, allelu!
And sons in glory aye shall be,
Allelu, alleluia!
To God our Father, praises bring,
To Christ, our Brother and our King,
O brothers, sisters, let us sing!
Gloria, alleluia!


Maybe what got me off dead center with this was remembering how, a few months ago, the pastor of the church I attend when I'm not preaching somewhere challenged us to come up with hymns on the doctrine of Adoption.  I can't say this is that hymn, but thinking about the theme made me consider that something could be done with Hebrews, chapter 2.  And so I did.

I still have to publish it, meaning run off copies of the score and send them to my kinfolk and friends in lieu of Christmas cards or gifts.  I've already published it online, here.

A blessed Christmastide to all five of my readers.  Remember, it's all true.

A Happy and Blessed Christmas to You

While I'm waiting for the acorn squash I'm taking to Christmas dinner at my friends' Hannah* and Steve's* house to finish baking, and as I (hopefully!) get my Christmas cards for them and their siblings printed out the right way this time, may I present this year's original carol:



















When armies marched and rulers roared,
When Empire knew its golden age;
When noisy Pride bestrode the stage:
Then softly, softly, came the Lord.

When inns no shelter could afford
And hectic crowds were taxed with fear,
When anguish bound this fallen sphere:
Then peacefully, peacefully, came the Lord.

When angels bright, with one accord,
To shepherds midst their lambs and ewes,
Proclaimed the saving gospel news:
So mercif’ly, mercif’ly came the Lord.

When wise men noble gifts outpoured
And worshipped at His infant feet,
Their Sage and King in Him to greet:
Then humbly, humbly came the Lord.

O Jesus, Son of God adored,
In lowliness Your strength is shown,
That we should worship You alone:
So Gloria, gloria, gloria, Lord!


A blessed day to you all, whatever is going on in your life, for Jesus is the Prince of the peace that confounds all human understanding. He shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot comprehend Him.

Carol Music

Here's my friend Frieda* playing my music for the year's Christmas carol. It should give you an idea of how it goes.

(With typical apologies for the sound quality on my camera and for the piano needing tuned.)

Hodie Christus Natus Est! Alleluia!

Presenting this year's carol. May it in some small way be worthy of its subject.

The angel came to Mary
And said, "Hail, full of grace!
For you shall bear the Savior
Of Adam’s fallen race!"
In wonder Mary listened
To this amazing word,
Then said to him, "Here now behold
The handmaid of the Lord.
"O could I but proclaim it,
O, that I might tell:
That I shall bear the Son of God,
The Lord, Immanuel!"

To Judah’s hills came Mary,
To Lizabeth the old,
The blessed news to say to her,
The angel had foretold.
All great with child, her cousin
Gave greeting in her joy,
And in her womb her quickened son
Announced the holy Boy.
"O could I but proclaim it,
O, that I might tell:
That in me grows the Mighty One,
The Lord, Immanuel!"

To Beth’lem Mary travelled
With Joseph, gentle spouse,
But nowhere could they lay their heads
In any lodging house.
At last, within a stable
With floor of beaten earth,
While ox and ass stood dumbly by,
Our Savior came to birth.
"O could I but proclaim it,
O, that I might tell:
Thus humbly comes the King of kings,
The Lord, Immanuel!"


The shepherds came to Mary
To see with their own eyes
The blessed Child with praise announced
By angels in the skies.
Then, joyful through the village,
The news they did impart,
But filled with wonder, Mary kept
It treasured in her heart.
"Too wondrous to proclaim it,
O, miracle to tell:
A manger holds the Prince of Peace,
The Lord, Immanuel!"


To Salem’s town came Jesus,
He came to Calvary’s hill,
He hung upon a felon’s cross,
Our ransom to fulfil.
The angels hid their faces,
Creation held its breath,
When Mary’s Child, the Lord of life,
Drank deep of bitter death.

Unworthy we to speak it,
O, with sadness tell:
Our sin has slain the Lamb of God,
The Lord, Immanuel!

The Marys to the garden,
Bereft and all forlorn,
Came sadly to their Master’s tomb
And there to weep and mourn.
The earth shook with rejoicing,
The stone was rolled away!
The angel spoke, "Christ has come forth
In victory today!"
O could we but proclaim it,
O, that we might tell:
That risen is the Son of Man,
The Lord, Immanuel!


With trembling awe they heard it,
The word the angel gave,
And glad and speechless ran away
From Jesus’ empty grave.
Then Jesus stood before them,
As at His feet they fell--
"I live forever for your sake!
Now quickly, go and tell!"
O Christian, go proclaim it,
Let all the faithful tell:
Redeemed us has the Son of God,
Our Lord, Immanuel!


The music for it is written, the first draft at least. Soon as I can, I'll figure out how to post an audio clip. Meanwhile, a merry and blessed Christmas to you all!

So I'm an Idiot

I never learn.

I went back and kept hammering away at the soprano and alto lines of my new carol, mostly to get the rhythms and the note lengths right.

Now it's done, and I rather like it! And I've printed out a copy to go down to the piano and figure out and write in the tenor and bass.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

What I'm Up To

Is something I've no business being up to.

I've never taken a music composition class. I had a few music theory tutorials as a supplement to my violin lessons twenty years ago, but nothing graded, nothing formal. Nothing where I had to submit work to be critiqued and corrected.

But here I am, with my Second Annual Christmas carol poem finally completed, trying to write the music for it. In four-part harmony. Or polyphony, since I'm going for a medieval feel.

Last year's carol I set it to a Welsh folk tune. This year, oh yeah, I gotta do it myself.

The soprano and alto lines are easy. I can plunk them out on my piano. The bass and tenor, not so much.

Doesn't help that it's freezing cold in my music room. Doesn't help that I never had the advantage of piano lessons, either.

And it doesn't help that in a better-case scenario this would have been done and sent out with my Christmas cards three weeks ago.

Well, I had other things to take care of. And the lyrics hadn't come through yet, anyway.

About forty minutes ago I gave up composing on the piano for the night and came upstairs to copy the soprano and alto lines, at least, into the freebie music composition program on my computer. But I can't remember how to make it let me do passing tones. Which not only makes the playback sound funny, it makes it hard to keep track of where I am in my manuscript.

Which might be a clue that it's time to give over for the night and take up the cause again in the morning?

Ode on a Taxing Time

Oh come, ye tardy filers,
Wherever you may be,
And sing the song of Taxing Day
Full well and lustily!

Ye've put it off forever,
But now the day has come
When Caesar gets (or mayhap gives?)
And filing must be done.

The jolly taxman orders
All must be done aright,
Or on your head be audit dread--
Lord, shield us from such fright!

But who can ken the reason,
Who can the secret read
Of all the levies, laws and rules
Our rulers have decreed?

Oh, in and out and up and down
The sums and schedules wend
With line on line and form on form--
Will never come the end?

Alas, ye must get to it,
Take courage, citizen!
Now put your hand to keyboard,
Take up that chiselled pen.

And now, farewell, dear neighbor,
For I am one with you:
I am but barely halfway done,
By e'en I may be through.

Good weal, ye tardy filers,
Whoever you may be,
And sing the lay of Taxing Day,
Full well and lustily.

The Song of the Hunting Cat

I haven't posted any songs for awhile. Here's a frivolous piece I came up with while raking last year's leaves out of the back yard this afternoon:

Oh, at our house we have a cat,
Picolay, picolay,
Who prowls around this way and that,
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay,
High-di-ho-di, picolay,
Picolay, picolay,
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di!

Out in the garden sat a frog,
Picolay, picolay,
Said, "Whither go ye, Mistress Mog?"
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"Hunting go I, as is meet,
Picolay, picolay,
"That I may find my dinner sweet,"
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what, pray, shall your quarry be?"
Picolay, picolay,
"The bird that flies unwarily."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what if Bird stays in her house?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, I’ll catch the tender mouse."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what if Mouse runs down his hole?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, I’ll hunt the whiskered vole."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"What if Vole gains his burrow snug?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, I’ll find a juicy bug."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what if Bug should hear your voice?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, a squirrel would be my choice."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what if Squirrel runs up a tree?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, Sir Frog, I’d fancy thee!"
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

When Mother let our cat inside,
Picolay, picolay,
"Frog legs for supper!" Kitty cried.
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay,
High-di-ho-di, picolay,
Picolay, picolay,
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di!

--24 March 2007 (copyright St. Blogwen's Well)

"'For I Am with You and Will Rescue You'"

We gathered for daily worship in our interim pastor training course (which ended yesterday); an essential thing, given the clergy's propensity for thinking the fate of the church lies all on us. The experienced interim pastors taking the advanced course planned and led the worship. On Thursday, the woman with preaching duty reflected on how down churches and church members can get on their potential and possibilities. How it's so easy to focus on past failures and present ordeals. "It's just too hard for me," is the woeful refrain.

And ain't it the truth . . . !

And I thought, that sounds like a blues song! "It's just too hard, too hard for me . . . " Yeah. So let's write the rest of it. Except, I'm going to call it

The Pastor's Lament

It's just too hard, too hard for me,

I wanna lay this burden down;

This road's too high, too long and weary,

It's just too hard for me.

But nothing's too hard for my Jesus,

There's nothing too hard for my Lord.

He carried my load up Calvary Road;

There's nothing too hard for Him.

We're poor and broke, no money's comin',

I wanna lay this burden down;

The roof has leaks, the walls are crumblin',

It's just too hard for me.

But nothing's too hard for my Jesus . . .

The world's no help, and evil's knockin',

I wanna lay this burden down;

I tell the truth, seems no one listens,

It's just too hard for me.

But nothing's too hard for my Jesus . . .

Sometimes it seems that there's no use in tryin';

Sometimes it feels I'm a fool to go on.

Young folk don't care and the old folks keep dyin',

It's just too hard for me.

But nothing's too hard for me with my Jesus,

Nothing's too hard for me with my Lord;

He lifted my load on Calvary's road,

There's nothing too hard for Him.

(Copyright 2005, St. Blogwen's Well)

This is a work in progress, of course. And I reserve the right to change it around whenever the inspiration hits me. But I suppose it's the same with pastoring, interim or otherwise. It's always a work in progress. And it's not going to be done-- or done well-- without a large dose of in-Spir(it)-ation!

"The Creation Waits in Eager Expectation . . . "

Thursday morning I had an appointment at the doctor's office. In time I was ensconced in the examination room, in that state of deshabille that is required of one in doctors' examination rooms. But the doctor did not appear. I waited and waited and waited some more, yet the doctor did not come. There was nothing to read in the examination room, only a few posters of adorable children on the walls and one on the ceiling, depicting a tree being struck by lightning-- which I take as an example of my doctor's sense of humor. Even if there had been anything to read in the room, I wouldn't've wanted to get up and fetch it. It was chilly enough in there as it was and I didn't want to raise a draft.

But I had to do something to pass the time. So I made up a waiting song. And after I went home, I finished it. Here it is:

We are waiting,
We are waiting
For the sons of God to be revealed;
When all creation
Will shout in wonder
When we shall be revealed.

M: Who are the sons of God?
W: All who believe in Christ,
A: Male and female, Jew and Gentile,
We are the sons of God!

And we are waiting . . .

W: How does He give us life?
M: By dying for our sins;
A: Took our punishment on Calv’ry,
Jesus the Son of God.

And we are waiting . . .

M: How does He make us sons?
W: By rising from the dead;
A: Puts His life eternal in us
And makes us sons of God.

And we are waiting . . .

W: What is our hope and prayer?
M: Our rising from the grave;
A: Clothed with Jesus Christ forever,
Adopted sons of God!

And we are waiting . . .

(Copyright 2005 St. Blogwen's Well)

This evening, I wrote down the tune for it. The chorus is behaving very badly, wanting to sound entirely too much like the kids' song "Father Abraham." It's a traditional song, but I hate anything that smells like plagiarism. Nevertheless, it's what the words wanted, so it is what it is.

And my doctor's visit? Oh, that revealed that all is well. And may it be the last of its sort for a good long time!

"Good on Ya When . . . "

My motto in the morning is "No sudden moves!" And so I ease myself into consciousness with the help of Christian radio. Sunday morning one program's speaker was describing the persecutions Christians overseas are braving for the cause of Christ. The next preacher was dealing with the Beatitudes of Matthew 5, pointing out that this passage paints a portrait of one who is truly dedicated to Jesus-- because it is a portrait of Jesus Himself. Me, I decided that if I truly am committed to Christ, the very least I could do is get out of bed and get ready for church!

But those preachers got me thinking. My New Testament professor in seminary told us that the Greek customarily translated "Blessed are . . . " would be well-rendered by the Aussie phrase, "Good on ya!" That stuck with me. It seems more dynamic than "blessed," somehow. It reminds me that this passage is about God's people striving to have God's attitudes and to do God's work. And it reminds me that God reaches down and supports and enables and rewards that effort. "Good on ya when you're poor in spirit; that'll get you the kingdom of heaven!" "Good on ya when people give you all sorts of grief for my sake and you take it patiently; for that I'll reward you beyond your wildest dreams!"

As I was dressing, the words to a worship song came to me, based on the Beatitudes. A sung prayer, actually. It goes like this:

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you.
As you are humble, Master,
Make us like you.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you.
As you mourn over sin, Lord,
Make us like you.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you.
In your strong gentleness, Lord,
Make us like you.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you;
Thirsty for righteousness, Lord,
Make us like you.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you;
As you are merciful, Lord,
Make us like you.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you;
As you are pure in heart, Lord,
Make us like you.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you;
As you make peace, O Savior,
Make us like you.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you;
Suff'ring for righteousness, Lord,
Make us like you.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you;
Bearing shame for your sake, Lord,
Make us like you.

(Bridge)
For you died to heal our sinfulness,
And you rose to seal our faithfulness.

Make us like you, Lord Jesus,
Make us like you;
Sharing your blessedness, Lord,
Glad in your joyfulness, Lord,
Receiving all that's best, Lord,
Make us like you!

(Copyright 2005, St. Blogwen's Well)

I haven't decided on a tune yet. It needs to be something simple, but also something that'll bear repetition. Maybe when I get a problem with my FinaleNotepad software straightened out, I can come up with something and post it later.

In the meantime, if you find this little song helpful, and if it inspires you to become more like our Lord, well, good on ya!