Choir Song Quotes

A choir is made up of many voices, including yours and mine. If one by one all go silent then all that will be left are the soloists. Don’t let a loud few determine the nature of the sound. It makes for poor harmony and diminishes the song.

Your kisses lift me higher...like the sweet song of a choir. You light my morning sky, with burning love.

I heard the universe as an oratorio sung by a master choir of stars, accompanied by the orchestra of the planets and the percussion of satellites and moons. The aria they performed was a song to break the heart, full of tragic dissonance and deferred hope, and yet somewhere beneath it all was a piercing refrain of glory, glory, glory. And I sensed that not only the grand movements of the cosmos, but everything that had happened in my life, was a part of that song. Even the hurts that seemed most senseless, the mistakes I would have done anything to erase--nothing could make those things good, but good could still come out of them all the same, and in the end the oratorio would be no less beautiful for it.

This song is for my Molly, who is the best fucking thing that´s ever happened to me. Also, for those suicidal idiots sending her fan mail asking her to run away with them, I will hunt you down and rip off you nuts.

Sing, then. Sing, indeed, with shoulders back, and head up so that song might go to the roof and beyond to the sky. Mass on mass of tone, with a hard edge, and rich with quality, every single note a carpet of colour woven from basso profundo, and basso, and baritone, and alto, and tenor, and soprano, and also mezzo, and contralto, singing and singing, until life and all things living are become a song. O, Voice of Man, organ of most lovely might.

Dreamy dark eyes pinned me in place owning me. He licked his lips. Every time he did that my hormones erupted into the song of joy, a full orchestra plus heavenly choir accompanying. The whole shebang. It was ridiculous.

New eyes awaken. I send Love's name into the world with wings And songs grow up around me like a jungle. Choirs of all creatures sing the tunes Your Spirit played in Eden. Zebras and antelopes and birds of paradise Shine on the face of the abyss And I am drunk with the great wilderness Of the sixth day in Genesis. But sound is never half so fair As when that music turns to air And the universe dies of excellence. Sun, moon and stars Fall from their heavenly towers. Joys walk no longer down the blue world's shore. Though fires loiter, lights still fly on the air of the gulf, All fear another wind, another thunder: Then one more voice Snuffs all their flares in one gust. And I go forth with no more wine and no more stars And no more buds and no more Eden And no more animals and no more sea: While God sings by himself in acres of night And walls fall down, that guarded Paradise.

i've left in search of a new God. i do not trust the God you have given us. my grandmother's hallelujah is only outdone by the fear she nurses every time the blood-fat summer swallows another child who used to sing in the choir. take you God back. though his songs are beautiful, his miracles are inconsistent.

King looked back at Roland. "As The Man With No Name--a fantasy version of Clint Eastwood--you were okay. A lot of fun to partner up with." "Is that how you think of it?" "Yes. But then you changed. Right under my hand. It got so I couldn't tell if you were the hero, the antihero, or no hero at all. When you let the kid drop, that was the capper." "You said you made me do that." Looking Roland straight in the eyes--blue meeting blue amid the endless choir of voices--King said, "I lied, brother.

Here are all these people, full of heartache or hatred or desire, and we all have our troubles and the school year is filled with vulgarity and triviality and consequence, and there are all these teachers and kids of every shape and size, and there's this life we're struggling through full of shouting and tears and fights and break-ups and dashed hopes and unexpected luck -- it all disappears, just like that, when the choir begins to sing. Everyday life vanishes into song, you are suddenly overcome with a feeling of brotherhood, of deep solidarity, even love, and it diffuses the ugliness of everyday life into a spirit of perfect communion.

There are many universes, perhaps an infinite number; that each contains, and is contained within every other; and that all of them sing together like voices in a choir. It is a beautiful thing - a song of infinite harmony.

I just acquired a choir. I bought it for a song.

The Horror of the world was that thousands of evils fell upon innocent people, and no one was punished and with great promise there was nothing but pain and desire Children mutilated to form a choir of seraphim. Their song was a cry to heaven the sky was not listening.

And there it is! Bravo! I knew it was only a matter of time before Byron realized he had an audience. That man is simply incapable of keeping his shirt on when there are spectators. One Christmas Eve, he stripped his shirt off right in the middle of the choir's rendition of Oh Child of Bethlehem. Coincidentally, the next song was Come Let Us Adore Him and the imbecile actually launched into some interpretive dance.

Then all the winds of Heaven ran to join hands and bend a shoulder, to bring down to me the sound of a noble hymn that was heavy with the perfume of Time That Has Gone. The glittering multitudes were singing most mightily, and my heart was in blood to hear a Voice that I knew. The Men of the Valley were marching again. My Fathers were singing up there. Loud, triumphant, the anthem rose, and I knew, in some deep place within, that in the royal music was a prayer to lift up my spirit, to be of good cheer, to keep the faith, that Death was only an end to the things that are made of clay, and to fight, without heed of wounds, all that brings death to the Spirit, with Glory to the Eternal Father, forever, Amen.

Well, I'm sorry you couldn't make it either. I'm sorry I had to sit there in that church--which, by the way, had a broken air conditioner--sweating, watching all those people march down the aisle to look in my mother's casket and whisper to themselves all this mess about how much she looked like herself, even though she didn't. I'm sorry you weren't there to hear the lame choir drag out, song after song. I'm sorry you weren't there to see my dad try his best to be upbeat, cracking bad jokes in his speech, choking on his words. I'm sorry you weren't there to watch me totally lose it and explode into tears. I'm sorry you weren't there for me, but it doesn't matter, because even if you were, you wouldn't be able to feel what I feel. Nobody can. Even the preacher said so.

Americans are experts at denial, a choir whose song could be titled, “Things Like That Don’t Happen in This Neighborhood.

Uh-oh," Will muttered. "This is going to be ... interesting." It turned out the creative genius behind the movie was Will's dad - the god Apollo, which meant this was not going to be a typical orientation flick. No, as we soon found out, Apollo had written, directed, produced, hosted and starred in ... a variety show. For those of you who don't know what a variety show is, imagine a talent show on steroids, complete with canned laughter, pre-recorded applause, and an extra-large helping of hokeyness. For the next hour, we cringe-watched as Apollo and our demigod predecessors performed in song-and-dance numbers, recited poetry, acted in comedy sketches and harmonized in a musical group called the Lyre Choir. Naturally, Apollo featured prominently in most of the acts. The one of him hula-hooping shirtless while satyrs capered around with long rainbow ribbons on sticks ... you can't unsee that kind of thing.

To Autumn" Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

If the chanting in temple would help inner peace, if the preaching in a mosque would address humanity and the choirs in a church would sing songs of universal love, I am not against religions!

Those years of anger weren’t just directed inward and towards others, I was also angry with God. As a kid, when I sang songs in the children’s choir and memorized verses in bible study, I was told there was a God who loved and protected us. He was a jealous God and could be angered, yes, but He always showed grace and mercy towards His people. I must not have been one of His people. He never protected me. As a matter of fact, I remember crying and pleading to God to make it stop when I was in DC being raped at five years old. I thought he heard my prayers when I moved to New Jersey. But when the abuse became worse and more frequent, it was easy for me to conclude God’s protection didn’t apply to me.

The word is dissociate. There is no 'a' before the 'ss'. People invariably say dis-a-ssociate, which, if you're suffering Disso-ciative Identity Disorder/Multiple Personality Disorder, can be irritating. People then want to know how many personalities I have and the answer is: I don't know. The first book about Multiple Personality Disorder to make an impact was Flora Rheta Schreiber's Sybil, published in 1973, which carries the subtitle: The True and Extraordinary Story of a Woman Possessed by Sixteen Separate Personalities. Corbett H. Thigpen and Hervey M. Cleckley published the controversial The Three Faces of Eve much earlier in 1957, and Pete Townshend from The Who wrote the song 'Four Faces'. People seem to feel safe with numbers. The truth is more complicated. The kids emerged over time. Billy, the boisterous five-year-old, was at first the most dominant. But he slowly stood aside for JJ, the self-confident ten-year-old who appears when Alice is under stress and handles complicated situations like travelling on the Underground and meeting new people. The first entity to visit was the external voice of the Professor. But he had a choir of accomplices without names. So, how many actual alter personalities are there? I would say more than fifteen and less than thirty, a combination of protectors, persecutors and friends - my own family tree.

The evangelical Old Testament biblical scholar Christopher Wright states the matter even more strongly: “We are listening, not to a single voice, not even to a single choir in harmony, but to several choirs singing different songs with some protest groups jamming in the wings.”[113]

It was the horror of this world that a thousand evils were visited on those who were blameless and no one was ever punished, and side by side with the greatest promise was nothing but misery and want. Children mutilated to make a choir of seraphim, their song a cry to heaven that heaven did not hear.

Every time, it’s a miracle. Here are all these people, full of heartache or hatred or desire, and we all have our troubles and the school year is filled with vulgarity and triviality and consequence, and there are all these teachers and kids of every shape and size, and there’s this life we’re struggling through full of shouting and tears and laughter and fights and break-ups and dashed hopes and unexpected luck—it all disappears, just like that, when the choir begins to sing. Everyday life vanishes into song, you are suddenly overcome with a feeling of brotherhood, of deep solidarity, even love, and it diffuses the ugliness of everyday life into a spirit of perfect communion. Even the singers’ faces are transformed: it’s no longer Achille Grand-Fernet that I’m looking at (he is a very fine tenor), or Déborah Lemeur or Ségolène Rachet or Charles Saint-Sauveur. I see human beings, surrendering to music.

I'd finally reached the end of myself, all my self-reliance and denial and pride unraveling into nothingness, leaving only a blank Alison-shaped space behind. It was finished. I was done. But just as I felt myself dissolving on the tide of my own self-condemnation, the dark waves receded, and I floated into a celestial calm. I saw the whole universe laid out before me, a vast shining machine of indescribable beauty and complexity. Its design was too intricate for me to understand, and I knew I could never begin to grasp more than the smallest idea of its purpose. But I sensed that every part of it, from quark to quasar, was unique and - in some mysterious way - significant. I heard the universe as an oratorio sung by a master choir of stars, accompanied by the orchestra of the planets and the percussion of satellites and moons. The aria they performed was a song to break the heart, full of tragic dissonance and deferred hope, and yet somewhere beneath it all was a peircing refrain of glory, glory, glory. And I sensed that not only the grand movements of the cosmos, but everything that had happened in my life, was a part of that song. Even the hurts that seemed most senseless, the mistakes I would have done anything to erase - nothing could make those things good, but good could still come out of them all the same, and in the end the oratorio would be no less beautiful for it. I realized then that even though I was a tiny speck in an infinite cosmos, a blip on the timeline of eternity, I was not without purpose. And as long as I had a part in the music of the spheres, even if it was only a single grace not, I was not worthless. Nor was I alone. God help me, I prayed as I gathered up my raw and weary sense, flung them into the wormhole - And at last, found what I'd been looking for.

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs? Where is your tribal memory? Sirs, in that gray vault. The sea. The sea has locked them up. The sea is History. First, there was the heaving oil, heavy as chaos; then, likea light at the end of a tunnel, the lantern of a caravel, and that was Genesis. Then there were the packed cries, the shit, the moaning: Exodus. Bone soldered by coral to bone, mosaics mantled by the benediction of the shark's shadow, that was the Ark of the Covenant. Then came from the plucked wires of sunlight on the sea floor the plangent harp of the Babylonian bondage, as the white cowries clustered like manacles on the drowned women, and those were the ivory bracelets of the Song of Solomon, but the ocean kept turning blank pages looking for History. Then came the men with eyes heavy as anchors who sank without tombs, brigands who barbecued cattle, leaving their charred ribs like palm leaves on the shore, then the foaming, rabid maw of the tidal wave swallowing Port Royal, and that was Jonah, but where is your Renaissance? Sir, it is locked in them sea sands out there past the reef's moiling shelf, where the men-o'-war floated down; strop on these goggles, I'll guide you there myself. It's all subtle and submarine, through colonnades of coral, past the gothic windows of sea fans to where the crusty grouper, onyx-eyed, blinks, weighted by its jewels, like a bald queen; and these groined caves with barnacles pitted like stone are our cathedrals, and the furnace before the hurricanes: Gomorrah. Bones ground by windmills into marl and cornmeal, and that was Lamentations - that was just Lamentations, it was not History; then came, like scum on the river's drying lip, the brown reeds of villages mantling and congealing into towns, and at evening, the midges' choirs, and above them, the spires lancing the side of God as His son set, and that was the New Testament. Then came the white sisters clapping to the waves' progress, and that was Emancipation - jubilation, O jubilation - vanishing swiftly as the sea's lace dries in the sun, but that was not History, that was only faith, and then each rock broke into its own nation; then came the synod of flies, then came the secretarial heron, then came the bullfrog bellowing for a vote, fireflies with bright ideas and bats like jetting ambassadors and the mantis, like khaki police, and the furred caterpillars of judges examining each case closely, and then in the dark ears of ferns and in the salt chuckle of rocks with their sea pools, there was the sound like a rumour without any echo of History, really beginning.

The twenty-year-olds sob, lament the only death that could have sealed off their youth, that of the magnificent lover they invented all together, whom they invoked through their prayers and incantations on nights when species vanished, whom they brought to life through witchcraft set down in ink composed of tears, blood, sperm, great symbols traced on hardwood or warmed ceramic, this lovely villain who would have spirited them away far from their beggar fathers, who would have made them princes in golden palaces, so go the thoughts of those who are so inspired; while the others tell themselves simply that he would have made it possible for them to live. A choir, to assuage absence and impotence. Listen to the vibrant song of new sorrows. They are of a race that sings under torture; they have no understanding of laws; they have no moral sense, they are brutes; do not be mistaken.

And in front of it all are the pearly gates: the proverbial entrance to Heaven that she, in earthly life, thought might not exist. But they are real, not myth or fantasy. As she passes through them, several people greet her. In foreign tongues even, but she understands. Language no longer matter. There are no barriers between herself and others, just love. The gorgeous views seem to go on forever. Ornate structures, mansions, banquet halls, and natural beauty, orchards, gardens. People congregate around huge marble fountains. In the distance are snow-capped mountains of the purist white. She can hear the sounds of rushing rivers and the surf of the ocean at once. Everyone around her is happy, loving, thankful. A choir sings songs of joy and peace while others play musical instruments of every kind in perfect harmony. Children laugh and play in the streets as well as in the clouds above her head.

It is safe to say that the message spoke of a common shape to all the processes of the world, and insisted there was a unity to all explanations. It confirmed that all phenomena are expressions of a single phenomenon, and while all droplets consider themselves independent, they are nonetheless still ocean through and through. In that message the great suspicions were vindicated and the old cliches were jettisoned. The hymn of the world was notated and an invitation to join the choir extended. The shape of Being was outlined in all its myriad forms and the whole was expressed in the part. With the right ears even a lesser creature can hear the song. It is sung constantly, from the heart of each atom and star. The galaxies hum of shape and form in their essence. That is their secret. The particles whisper of the nature of proper interactions. That is their game. And during a storm, in the forest, on the right night, it is no secret that the leaves all sing of God.

Sabbaths, 1982—IV   (“A gardener rises out of the ground”) Thrush song, stream song, holy love That flows through earthly forms and folds, The song of Heaven’s Sabbath fleshed In throat and ear, in stream and stone, A grace living here as we live, Move my mind now to that which holds Things as they change. The warmth has come. The doors have opened. Flower and song Embroider ground and air, lead me Beside the healing field that waits; Growth, death, and a restoring form Of human use will make it well. But I go on, beyond, higher In the hill’s fold, forget the time I come from and go to, recall This grove left out of all account, A place enclosed in song. Design Now falls from thought. I go amazed Into the maze of a design That mind can follow but not know, Apparent, plain, and yet unknown, The outline lost in earth and sky. What form wakens and rumples this? Be still. A man who seems to be A gardener rises out of the ground, Stands like a tree, shakes off the dark, The bluebells opening at his feet, The light a figured cloth of song.

A Summer's Singing" "Where does that singing start, you know, that thin sound—almost pure light? Not the birds at false dawn or their song when morning comes, feathered throats warm with meaning. A different kind of music. Listen, it is somewhere near you. In the heart, emptied of fear, stubbornly in love with itself at last, the old desires a ruined chorus, a radiant bloody choir. Where does the singing start? Here, where you are, there’s room between your heartbeats, as if everything you have ever been begins, inside, to sing.

Halia looked at the sky and watched the stars dancing to the song of the wind and rain. A spotlight of lightning always came before the chorus of thunder. She wondered if there were anyone else like her, sitting at their window and listening to the choir of dark, grey clouds. When time paused for as long as the rain fell, when the city of lights was blacked out, and Ameral Alley was quiet, dark, and wild, and all but a city of tall buildings and people working their lives away. But then she’d realised… maybe she just saw magic in times when others saw nothing.

O May I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live In pulses stirr’d to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man’s search To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, fail’d, and agoniz’d With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, A vicious parent shaming still its child, Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolv’d; Its discords, quench’d by meeting harmonies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self, That sobb’d religiously in yearning song, That watch’d to ease the burthen of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better,—saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shap’d it forth before the multitude, Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mix’d with love,— That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gather’d like a scroll within the tomb Unread forever. This is life to come, Which martyr’d men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, Be the sweet presence of a good diffus’d, And in diffusion ever more intense! So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world.

When I grew up in the church, once or twice a year one of the women in our choir would sing a song that really tore the house down called “I Am Not Ashamed.” This was an emotional song for everybody in the room. Our chins would quiver, and we’d close our eyes and put our hands in the air, really feeling it. But looking back, I think what made that song so overpowering to me was that I was ashamed. And I don’t think I was the only one. That’s why we had that song! You don’t have to sing “I am not ashamed of the Gospel of Jesus Christ” if you’re really not ashamed. No one has ever sang “I am not ashamed of ice cream.” There’s no need.

The first time that I went to Tuskegee I was asked to make an address to the school on Sunday evening. I sat upon the platform of the large chapel and looked forth on a thousand coloured faces, and the choir of a hundred or more behind me sang a familiar religious melody, and the whole company joined in the chorus with unction. I was the only white man under the roof, and the scene and the songs made an impression on me that I shall never forget. Mr. Washington arose and asked them to sing one after another of the old melodies that I had heard all my life; but I had never before heard them sung by a thousand voices nor by the voices of educated Negroes. I had associated them with the Negro of the past, not with the Negro who was struggling upward. They brought to my mind the plantation, the cabin, the slave, not the freedman in quest of education. But on the plantation and in the cabin they had never been sung as these thousand students sang them. I saw again all the old plantations that I had ever seen; the whole history of the Negro ran through my mind; and the inexpressible pathos of his life found expression in these songs as I had never before felt it. And the future? These were the ambitious youths of the race, at work with an earnestness that put to shame the conventional student life of most educational institutions. Another song rolled up along the rafters. And as soon as silence came, I found myself in front of this extraordinary mass of faces, thinking not of them, but of that long and unhappy chapter in our country's history which followed the one great structural mistake of the Fathers of the Republic; thinking of the one continuous great problem that generations of statesmen had wrangled over, and a million men fought about, and that had so dwarfed the mass of English men in the Southern States as to hold them back a hundred years behind their fellows in every other part of the world—in England, in Australia, and in the Northern and Western States; I was thinking of this dark shadow that had oppressed every large-minded statesman from Jefferson to Lincoln. These thousand young men and women about me were victims of it. I, too, was an innocent victim of it. The whole Republic was a victim of that fundamental error of importing Africa into America.

On this side of eternity, Christmas is still a promise. Yes, the Savior has come, and with him peace on earth, but the story is not finished. Yes, there is peace in our hearts, but we long for peace in our world. Every Christmas is still a “turning of the page” until Jesus returns. Every December 25 marks another year that draws us closer to the fulfillment of the ages, that draws us closer to . . . home. When we realize that Jesus is the answer to our deepest longing, even Christmas longings, each Advent brings us closer to his glorious return to earth. When we see him as he is, King of kings and Lord of lords, that will be “Christmas” indeed! Talk about giving Christmas gifts! Just think of this abundance . . . You do not lack any spiritual gift as you eagerly wait for our Lord Jesus Christ to be revealed. (1 Cor. 1:7) And carols? You’re about to hear singing like you’ve never heard before. Listen . . . Then I heard something like the voice of a great multitude and like the sound of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, saying, “Hallelujah! For the Lord our God, the Almighty, reigns.” (Rev. 19:6, nasb) Christmas choirs? Never was there a choir like the one about to be assembled . . . They held harps given them by God and sang . . . the song of the Lamb: “Great and marvelous are your deeds, Lord God Almighty. Just and true are your ways, King of the ages.” (Rev. 15:2–3) True, Main Street in your town may be beautifully decorated for the season, but picture this . . . The twelve gates [of the city] were twelve pearls, each gate made of a single pearl. The great street of the city was of pure gold, like transparent glass. (Rev. 21:21) Oh, and yes, we love the glow of candles on a cold winter’s night and the twinkling of Christmas lights in the dark, but can you imagine this? There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever. (Rev. 22:5) Heaven is about to happen. The celebration is about to burst on the scene. We stand tiptoe at the edge of eternity, ready to step into the new heaven and the new earth. And I can hardly wait.

No, no, we can't know his name, otherwise the Devil will have a story, a beginning and an end just like you or me, and Hell has no threat when it is staffed by commoners. But the Devil also likes to flirt with his own destruction - just like those he recruits to his cause - so he makes it a point to torment the weakest and greediest and guiltiest of the lot in their worst moments of need and make them guess his name. Guess right and live. Fail and burn forever. All of them fail, of course. But it's in good fun! Give the damned a chance. Wink, wink. There are a lot of sinning fools to choose from, and today, as he hunches over his river Styx, a churning, bubbling bath, each of the bubbles shows him a soul ready to be plucked from their time on earth and whisked down to eternal suffering. He can hear the screams of his choir now, millions strong, broiling in the dungeons beneath his river. Who will join his little chickies? He sings a song, because the Devil is an artist: Fiddle dee dum, Fiddle dee dee, Look at my bubbles, one two thee. Who will play my game? Who will guess my name? Who will be the next to burn in flames?

I was not able to sleep that night. To be honest, I didn’t even try. I stood in front of my living room window, staring out at the bright lights of New York City. I don’t know how long I stood there; in fact, I didn’t see the millions of multicolored lights or the never-ending streams of headlights and taillights on the busy streets below. Instead, I saw, in my mind’s eye, the crowded high school classrooms and halls where my friends and I had shared triumphs and tragedies, where the ghosts of our past still reside. Images flickered in my mind. I saw the faces of teachers and fellow students I hadn’t seen in years. I heard snatches of songs I had rehearsed in third period chorus. I saw the library where I had spent long hours studying after school. Most of all, I saw Marty. Marty as a shy sophomore, auditioning for Mrs. Quincy, the school choir director. Marty singing her first solo at the 1981 Christmas concert. Marty at the 1982 Homecoming Dance, looking radiant after being selected as Junior Princess. Marty sitting alone in the chorus practice room on the last day of our senior year. I stared long and hard at those sepia-colored memories. And as my mind carried me back to the place I had sworn I’d never return to, I remembered.

Extract from 'Quixotic Ambitions': The crowd stared at Katy expectantly. She looked at them - old women in black, exhausted young women with pasty-faced children, youths in jeans and leather blousons chewing gum. She tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, she blurted out her short speech, thanking the people of Shkrapova for their welcome and promising that if she won the referendum she would work for the good of Maloslavia. There was some half-hearted applause and an old lady hobbled up to her, knelt down with difficulty, and kissed the hem of her skirt. She looked at Katy with tears rolling down her face and gabbled something excitedly. Dimitar translated: ‘She says that she remembers the reign of your grandfather and that God has sent you to Maloslavia.’ Katy was embarrassed but she smiled at the woman and helped her to her feet. At this moment the People’s Struggle Pioneers appeared on the scene, waving their banners and shouting ‘Doloy Manaheeyoo! Popnikov President!’ Police had been stationed at strategic points and quickly dispersed the demonstrators without any display of violence, but the angry cries of ‘Down with the monarchy!’ had a depressing effect on the entertainment that had been planned; only a few people remained to watch it. A group of children aged between ten and twelve ran into the square and performed a series of dances accompanied by an accordian. They stamped their feet and clapped their hands frequently and occasionally collided with one another when they forgot their next move. The girls wore embroidered blouses, stiffly pleated skirts and scarlet boots and the boys were in baggy linen shirts and trousers, the legs of which were bound with leather thongs. Their enthusiasm compensated for their mistakes and they were loudly applauded. The male voice choir which followed consisted of twelve young men who sang complicated polyphonic melodies with a high, curiously nasal tenor line accompanied by an unusually deep droning bass. Some of their songs were the cries of despair of a people who had suffered under Turkish occupation; others were lively dance tunes for feast days and festivals. They were definitely an acquired taste and Katy, who was beginning to feel hungry, longed for them to come to an end. At last, at two o’clock, the performance finished and trestle tables were set up in the square. Dishes of various salads, hors-d’oeuvres and oriental pastries appeared, along with casks of beer and bottles of the local red wine. The people who had disappeared during the brief demonstration came back and started piling food on to paper plates. A few of the People’s Struggle Pioneers also showed up again and mingled with the crowd, greedily eating anything that took their fancy.

By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and of the holy canons, and of the undefiled Virgin Mary, mother and patroness of our Saviour, and of all the celestial virtues, angels, archangels, thrones, dominions, powers, cherubins and seraphins, and of all the holy patriarchs, prophets, and of all the apostles and evangelists, and of the holy innocents, who in the sight of the Holy Lamb, are found worthy to sing the new song of the holy martyrs and holy confessors, and of the holy virgins, and of all the saints together, with the holy and elect of God, may he be damn'd. We excommunicate, and anathematize him, and from the thresholds of the holy church of God Almighty we sequester him, that he may be tormented, disposed, and delivered over with Dathan and Abiram, and with those who say unto the Lord God, Depart from us, we desire none of thy ways. And as fire is quenched with water, so let the light of him be put out for evermore, unless it shall repent him' and make satisfaction. Amen. May the Father who created man, curse him. May the Son who suffered for us curse him. May the Holy Ghost, who was given to us in baptism, curse him May the holy cross which Christ, for our salvation triumphing over his enemies, ascended, curse him. May the holy and eternal Virgin Mary, mother of God, curse him. May St. Michael, the advocate of holy souls, curse him. May all the angels and archangels, principalities and powers, and all the heavenly armies, curse him. [Our armies swore terribly in Flanders, cried my uncle Toby,---but nothing to this.---For my own part I could not have a heart to curse my dog so.] May St. John the Pre-cursor, and St. John the Baptist, and St. Peter and St. Paul, and St. Andrew, and all other Christ's apostles, together curse him. And may the rest of his disciples and four evangelists, who by their preaching converted the universal world, and may the holy and wonderful company of martyrs and confessors who by their holy works are found pleasing to God Almighty, curse him. May the holy choir of the holy virgins, who for the honor of Christ have despised the things of the world, damn him May all the saints, who from the beginning of the world to everlasting ages are found to be beloved of God, damn him May the heavens and earth, and all the holy things remaining therein, damn him. May he be damn'd wherever he be---whether in the house or the stables, the garden or the field, or the highway, or in the path, or in the wood, or in the water, or in the church. May he be cursed in living, in dying. May he be cursed in eating and drinking, in being hungry, in being thirsty, in fasting, in sleeping, in slumbering, in walking, in standing, in sitting, in lying, in working, in resting, in pissing, in shitting, and in blood-letting! May he be cursed in all the faculties of his body! May he be cursed inwardly and outwardly! May he be cursed in the hair of his head! May he be cursed in his brains, and in his vertex, in his temples, in his forehead, in his ears, in his eye-brows, in his cheeks, in his jaw-bones, in his nostrils, in his fore-teeth and grinders, in his lips, in his throat, in his shoulders, in his wrists, in his arms, in his hands, in his fingers! May he be damn'd in his mouth, in his breast, in his heart and purtenance, down to the very stomach! May he be cursed in his reins, and in his groin, in his thighs, in his genitals, and in his hips, and in his knees, his legs, and feet, and toe-nails! May he be cursed in all the joints and articulations of the members, from the top of his head to the sole of his foot! May there be no soundness in him! May the son of the living God, with all the glory of his Majesty and may heaven, with all the powers which move therein, rise up against him, curse and damn him, unless he repent and make satisfaction! Amen. I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, my heart would not let me curse the devil himself with so much bitterness!

It is to be regretted that the niceties of modern singing frighten our congregations from joining lustily in the hymns. For our part we delight in full bursts of praise, and had rather discover the ruggedness of a want of musical training than miss the heartiness of universal congregational song. The gentility which lisps the tune in well bred whispers, or leaves the singing altogether to the choir, is very like a mockery of worship. The gods of Greece and Rome may be worshipped well enough with classical music, but Jehovah can only be adored with the heart, and that music is the best for his service which gives the heart most play.

Miranda waited. No voice spoke. No heavenly choir broke out in song. God Himself did not call her name. She frowned. Typical.

Redemption Choir. Half-demons who want to be human,” I said. “So they’re the good guys.” “No,” I said. “They’re nuts, and they just kidnapped a priest. They’re the bad guys.” “Who’s AB?” “Special Agent Harmony Black. FBI agent, trying to bust Nicky Agnelli. Honest cop, as far as I know. Straight shooter.” “So she’s a good guy.” “No, because she also wants to bust everyone who Nicky’s ever done business with, including me, and Lauren Carmichael’s pulling her strings. So she’s also a bad guy.” “Who’s S?” Pixie asked. “Sitri. Demon prince.” “Definitely a bad guy.” I sighed. “No. My girlfriend works for him, and she just helped save the world.” “So let me get this straight,” Pixie said. “Some of the bad guys are bad guys, some of the bad guys are the good guys, and there aren’t any good good guys.” “That’s right.” “Hey, Faust?” “Yeah, Pix?” “You ever think,” she said, “your moral compass might be just a little bit fucked up?” “Every damn day.

She arched an eyebrow. “You already know?” “I stole his soul, lost his soul, exorcised his soul from another person’s body, stuffed him in a bottle, pulled a short con, and now the Choir thinks I’m Gilles de Rais.” Pixie just stared at me. She rested her palms on the tabletop. “You have got,” she said, “to do a better job of keeping me in the loop.” “It’s been a really busy couple of days.

Psalm 67 For the choir director: A song. A psalm, to be accompanied by stringed instruments. 1 May God be merciful and bless us.        May his face smile with favor on us. Interlude 2 May your ways be known throughout the earth,        your saving power among people everywhere. 3 May the nations praise you, O God.        Yes, may all the nations praise you. 4 Let the whole world sing for joy,        because you govern the nations with justice        and guide the people of the whole world. Interlude 5 May the nations praise you, O God.        Yes, may all the nations praise you. 6 Then the earth will yield its harvests,        and God, our God, will richly bless us. 7 Yes, God will bless us,        and people all over the world will fear him.

There was scant precedent for the prickly kind of pop the Pixies played, and their sound is recognizable on the slightest whiff. It’s a series of opposing forces that fit together incongruously but exquisitely: a bouncy yet firm bassline (Deal called it “boingy-boingysproingy”) joined to a demented choir of punky guitars; Thompson’s harsh primal scream beside Deal’s coy and smoky harmonies; explosive, grating riffs in songs crafted from prime bubblegum. Behind it all is Thompson’s song-writing, playful but also insular, inscrutable.

In Brothers: Black and Poor (1988), the story of twelve African American men in a housing project on Chicago’s South Side, one of main characters, Half Man Carter, has a prized record collection that includes “Mama Sang a Song,” by Walter Brennan. In the early 1960s, Brennan became a recording star, narrating brief stories like “Old Shep” and “Tribute to a Dog,” and producing several popular albums, which have had an extended life on CDs and the web, where many of his songs can be downloaded. In A World of Miracles (1960), to the accompaniment of orchestra and choir, he recites the stories of Noah, the Ten Commandments, and the Resurrection, transforming his familiar way of speaking into a solemn, yet friendly New England accented prophetic voice.

Come Let Us Worship Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the LORD our Maker. —PSALM 95:6     A recent point of frustration, debate, and tension in many churches has been about defining worship and agreeing what it should look like. Older Christians are confused because of changes made to the style of worship. They wonder whatever happened to the old hymns that were so beloved. They knew the page numbers and all the old verses by heart. Today there are no hymnals, the organs have been silenced, and guitars, drums, and cymbals have taken over. The choir and their robes have been abandoned, and now we have five to seven singers on stage leading songs. We stand for 30 minutes at a time singing song lyrics that we aren’t familiar with from a large screen. What’s happening? If the church doesn’t have these components, the young people leave and go to where it’s happening. Are we going to let the form of worship divide our churches? I hope not! The origins of many of the different expressions of worship can be found in the Psalms, which portray worship as an act of the whole person, not just the mental sphere. The early founders established ways to worship based on what they perceived after reading this great book of the Bible. Over the centuries, Christian worship has taken many different forms, involving various expressions and postures on the part of churchgoers. The Hebrew word for “worship” literally means “to kneel” or “to bow down.” The act of worship is the gesture of humbling oneself before a mighty authority. The Psalms also call upon us to “sing to the LORD, bless His name” (96:2 NASB). Music has always played a large part in the sacred act of worship. Physical gestures and movements are also mentioned in the Psalms. Lifting our hands before God signifies our adoration of Him. Clapping our hands shows our celebration before God. Some worshipers rejoice in His presence with tambourines and dancing (see Psalm 150:4). To worship like the psalmist is to obey Jesus’ command to “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30). There are many more insights for worship in the book of Psalms: • God’s gifts of instruments and vocal music can be used to help us worship (47:1; 81:1-4). • We can appeal to God for help, and we can thank Him for His deliverance (4:3; 17:1-5). • Difficult times should not prevent us from praising God (22:23- 24; 102:1-2; 140:4-8).

Denny Cordell and Leon Russell ran a record company much the way Russell put together Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen tour, which was basically a hippie commune on wheels. The Mad Dogs and Englishmen experience would stand as a kind of summit of seventies excess, with three drummers and a choir and endless hangers-on. But Russell’s and Cordell’s careers started well before that. Leon Russell had been a member of the Wrecking Crew, playing on Phil Spector records, Beach Boys and Byrds records, Monkees and Paul Revere and the Raiders records. He’d been a member of the Shindogs, the house band on television’s Shindig! He’d had his own hits and seen his songs become hits for other artists, from Gary Lewis and the Playboys to the Carpenters. When George Harrison organized the Bangladesh concert, he called Russell, who helped put the band together. At those shows, Russell stood out like the natural star he was. Denny

We’re just a sinner’s choir, singing a song for the saints. —Kenny Chesney, “Song for the Saints

It was as though a choir had been told not to sing harmoniously, but to sing their own songs, and to ensure that they were heard above the rest. I'm sure you can imagine what a deafening cacophony it would be.

There was something familiar about the angelic choir, their sacred songs wafting through the night in perfect harmony; he always felt close to heaven here.

I love the church. I like the waxed candles that remind me people think of people. I love the bouquet of flowers on the altar that a group of grandmas grow in their gardens and pridefully donate every week. I admire the wooden statues of craftsmanship, of a mother staring at you with the kind of pure, loving look I forgot to ask from mine. I like the skinny man nailed to the cross reminding me that people are capable of sacrificial love. I like to stare at the art on the stained-glass windows, of angels, of lambs, and of fruit. I love running my hands over mosaics and tracing the lips of saints. I love the hymns and joy of the choir, who sing regardless if you’re too scared. I love watching the collective sway of bodies subconsciously comforted by their environment after finally saying “Peace be with you.” And most of all, I love being surrounded by people trying. They wear Christ around their neck and squeeze a rosary for dear life, admitting their weaknesses and sins. Tell me, where do you find that? There is an honesty in the church, spilling from kneeling persons, that gives me the hope humans can take care of each other and our planet can be a good one. Where else can I be exposed to the practice of morality on such an emotional level? I love everything about the church—the shiny pews, the smoky incense, the Bible and its purpose – because when all is considered, it makes sense. It is a template of discipline and thoughtfulness. Why call religious people idiots when they’re the few paying attention to their own lives? And there are other ways to be moral of course, but not many ways to practice. I’ve learned that to believe in God doesn’t subtract any life from you. It is additional. It is the world and God. If someone wears a jacket over their shirt, they aren’t naked. They’re double-layered.

choir of cicadas whose song made the air tremble.

Worship is the work of acknowledging the greatness of our covenant Lord.”1 It can certainly be done privately, but worshipping corporately is more in keeping with the greatness of God’s worth—it is more aptly proclaimed by a choir of people. When we proclaim God’s great worth together, songs of praise are most frequently associated with worship, but they certainly are not the totality. Some of the greatest times of worship are words of praise that are spoken rather than sung (cf. 2 Chron. 20:21; Isa. 6:3). The key is that worship proclaims the greatness of God as he has revealed himself in Jesus Christ.

DECEMBER 22 Parallel Universes Doubt, for me, tends to come in an overwhelming package, all at once. I don’t worry much about nuances of particular doctrines, but every so often I catch myself wondering about the whole grand scheme of faith. I stand in the futuristic airport in Denver, for example, watching important-looking people in business suits, briefcases clutched to their sides like weapons, pause at an espresso bar before scurrying off to another concourse. Do any of them ever think about God? I wonder. Christians share an odd belief in parallel universes. One universe consists of glass and steel and wool clothes and leather briefcases and the smell of freshly ground coffee. The other consists of angels and sinister spiritual forces and somewhere out there places called Heaven and Hell. We palpably inhabit the material world; it takes faith to consider oneself a citizen of the other, invisible world. Occasionally the two worlds merge for me, and these rare moments are anchors for my faith. The time I snorkeled on a coral reef and suddenly the flashes of color and abstract design flitting around me became a window to a Creator who exults in life and beauty. The time my wife forgave me for something that did not merit forgiveness—that too became a window, allowing a startling glimpse of divine grace. I have these moments, but soon toxic fumes from the material world seep in. Sex appeal! Power! Money! Military might! These are what matter most in life, I’m told, not the simpering platitudes of Jesus’ teachings in the Sermon on the Mount. For me, living in a fallen world, doubt seems more like forgetfulness than disbelief. I, a citizen of the visible world, know well the struggle involved in clinging to belief in another, invisible world. Christmas turns the tables and hints at the struggle involved when the Lord of both worlds descends to live by the rules of the one. In Bethlehem, the two worlds came together, realigned; what Jesus went on to accomplish on planet Earth made it possible for God someday to resolve all disharmonies in both worlds. No wonder a choir of angels broke out in spontaneous song, disturbing not only a few shepherds but the entire universe. Finding God in Unexpected Places (34 – 35)

I sat on the cold kitchen floor, locked between Mama’s thighs, flinching and holding my breath every time the pressing comb got close to my ear. The heat rose up stronger and stronger, like voices in a choir at a song’s climax. I hated getting my hair done but loved the finished product.

I have found that my tiny church, St. Andrew Presbyterian, has given me a shape to work against--a darning egg--for the last thirty years, what with all these holes. We have a choir of eight people who open their mouths, and a huge sound comes out, a mix of joy, pain, faith and conversational exposition. Spirit rises and falls in the voices, the choir's and ours. The singing is full-throated and clear, like the sound your finger makes when you run it around the rim of a crystal glass. It is like African singing where people call from various spots and create one sound. Twenty minutes after the first cave children started kicking around the first improvised balls, people started singing. Half an hour later, they found harmonies. Even with a couple of exceptional singers in the choir, you hear a solid spirit of song, rather than how individuals personally embellish it. The rising and falling is like all of us leaning forward together, then leaning backward on our heels, then coming forward together again. Spirit flows, and the sounds keep stirring that spirit, as the breezes from the high open windows above us keep stirring the air. Sometimes the pianist hits a few false notes, or the soloist warbles, and some of us sing along enthusiastically in the wrong key and the old people's voices dim. But we all keep singing, a mix of magnificence and plainsong that is beautiful, and the hymn plays on.

And the plot of all is, that he might gather these all together at last in heaven—some of which are already there, others of them at present on earth, and some yet unborn—and, when they shall all meet together in one glorious choir, that there they may, by their triumphant songs and hallelujahs, fill the heavens with praiseful acclam ations of thankfulness to the glory of that mercy which hath thus pardoned and saved them.

As more local Houses of Worship are built, an exponential number of Bahá’í choirs will likely form, aligning with Shoghi Effendi’s encouragement for choirs to sing in the Houses of Worship. Singing in a House of Worship is an unforgettable experience that unites singers around one common goal, causes hearts to beat as one and lifts the spirits of both singers and audience up the rungs of a spiritual ladder towards the heavens.

The South was a place that grew perfect strawberries and green tomatoes and white pumpkins and fat dogwood trees. It grew glorious church choirs and generous neighbors and grace. But the South I think of now was also a place where people strained for salvation, and lost things they loved, deplored Catholics and Jews, and got hanged for having dark skin. The South grew bullies who would use anything at hand—threats of damnation, mocking songs, blue blazes of brimstone—to build a wall against the future because of what it might destroy.

Perhaps art and magic are synonymous. Ever since someone worked out that a sound could be a word, or that you could draw an object. When signs, or words, emerged, you could describe the surrounding world, sign less until then. And from there, figuring out that this language could also describe things that don't exist in the world was no great leap. It's possible to just make stuff up, take ourselves places we didn't know existed and that perhaps don't exist, that emerge only in the moment the voice, and later the reader or writer, is connected to language. When this spell, language, is used to create gods and mythology, the fiction becomes so complex and self-referential that in fact it seems real, perhaps even self aware. That actually be what the singers in the old parish choir dream of; making God real through song, through their own real bodies.

is safe to say that the message spoke of a common shape to all the processes of the world, and insisted there was a unity to all explanations. It confirmed that all phenomena are expressions of a single phenomenon, and while all droplets consider themselves independent, they are nonetheless still ocean through and through. In that message the great suspicions were vindicated and the old cliches were jettisoned. The hymn of the world was notated and an invitation to join the choir extended. The shape of Being was outlined in all its myriad forms and the whole was expressed in the part. With the right ears even a lesser creature can hear the song. It is sung constantly, from the heart of each atom and star. The galaxies hum of shape and form in their essence. That is their secret. The particles whisper of the nature of proper interactions. That is their game. And during a storm, in the forest, on the right night, it is no secret that the leaves all sing of God.

Suburbia Knocks by Stewart Stafford Covert dawn's surreptitious light, A magpie sentry's warning song, Swooping, scanning silent streets, Cackling danger all night long. Metallic cross of crucified clothes, A choir of colours in the breeze, Waterboarded by lashing rain, Made them suffer incrementally. One knock for no, two knocks for yes, One and a half for uncertainty, Three knocks for drinks and company, The rite of suburban courtesy. 37 years ago, down at number 37, Came the first and last royal visit, Dizzying anticipation from first light, Fading fairytale in a curtsying gibbet. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Our love song! In the silence of the night, In the midst of the choir of my thoughts, I have loved you with all my delight, While bearing your essence in all my thoughts, In the wanderings of my memories, In the isolation of my existence, I have only dreamt of you and never of Gods and fairies, Because without you, for me this world shall have no existence, In the stillness of my fixated mental outflows, In my imaginings about you, I have always thought about how our love flows, While I am thinking of you, only of you, In the stare of the long and never ending roads, In my quest for the destiny, I have never dealt with a feeling that your presence erodes, From my eyes and from my final destiny, In the kiss many years ago, In the heart beats that we once felt together, I have never let its freshness, its warmth to abandon me and go, Because its memory makes me believe we shall someday be together, But in the nights, when darkness lasts for long, In the days when I hear the lovers song, I miss you Irma, and I often think what did I do so wrong, That I am denied to sing with you our own love song!

In the whole divine journey, no one else can walk your pathway. In the whole cosmic choir, no one else can sing your song.

So how did you think about him?” Rachel asks. Hallelujah shrugs. “We were friends. Good friends. He knew—knows—a lot about me. I guess I know a lot about him. Stuff he likes and doesn’t like.” Rachel looks skeptical. “And yet you never knew he liked you.” “No! I mean—when Jonah and I were friends, I liked Luke. So maybe I missed some signs.” “So you just . . . hung out? Platonically?” “Yeah. I guess.” Hallelujah thinks about how to explain it. How to distill a friendship down to its most basic components. “We had choir together last year. We talked. For kind of the first time, even though we’d been in church and school together since fourth grade.” “And, what, you found out you had so much in common?” “Actually, no. But we started comparing music we liked, and a month into ninth grade, Jonah made me this mix of songs. Based on what we’d talked about. So then I made him a mix. And it grew from there. We’d go to each other’s houses, watch movies, listen to music, that kind of thing. Hanging out.” “So tell me about Jonah. Something only you know.” “Um. He’d probably deny it, but he got really into the Harry Potter books. Like, really into them. I loaned him my box set last spring. He got so mad at me for not warning him how Book Six ends.” Rachel laughs. “He didn’t see the movies?” “No. But I told him we couldn’t watch them until he’d finished the books.

We want justice! We want justice!’ We chanted at the Western Oil Company building; the mirrored glass showed our reflections multiplied as though we were millions. This gave us courage and we shouted louder, even when the men with guns also multiplied. Then we started singing. I copied the women around me as closely as possible. Grandma had taught me many songs but I did not know that one. We sang in unison, like a choir that had been practising all year for that one song. Grandma started it. It was an Ijaw song called Wo Ekilemo. Praise him. Her voice was low and quiet, but one by one we joined in. The sound of us women singing was so powerful that the glass moved on the expensive windows, and people inside the building started shutting the windows, even the high-up ones. The slams made us sing even louder. I imagined the white men on the other side of the windows, watching us as they drank their tea. I wondered if they understood why we were protesting. I wondered if they even cared. The security men waving their guns started swaying, as if their bodies were disobeying their commands. They were Ijaw, too, you see. They removed their hats, and rocked from side to side. I sang loudly until the part that said ‘I have overcome death, poverty and sickness’. I could not sing that part. My mind kept flashing to Ezikiel’s face. But then I joined in again, and our voices rose so high I thought they might reach Allah’s ears. Then we all took off our clothes. ‘There is nothing more powerful than a naked woman,’ Grandma said. ‘Nothing in the world.

All Praise to Thee, My God, This Night All praise to Thee, my God, this night For all the blessings of the light. Keep me, oh, keep me, King of kings, Beneath Thy own almighty wings. 2. Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, The ill that I this day have done That with the world, myself and Thee, I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 3. Teach me to live that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die that so I may Rise glorious at the awe-ful Day. 4. Oh, may my soul on Thee repose, And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close, Sleep that shall me more vigorous make To serve my God when I awake. 5. When in the night I sleepless lie, My soul with heavenly thoughts supply; Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, No powers of darkness me molest. 6. Dull Sleep of Sense me to deprive, I am but half my time alive; Thy faithful Lovers, Lord, are griev'd, To lye so long of Thee bereav'd. 7. But though Sleep o'er my frailty Reigns Let it not hold me long in Chains; And now and then let lose my Heart, Till it an Hallelujah dart. 8. The faster Sleep the Senses binds, The more unfetter'd are our Minds; O may my Soul, from matter free, Thy loveliness unclouded see! 9. O when shall I in endless Day, Forever chase dark Sleep away, And Hymns with the Supernal Choir Incessant Sing and never tyre! 10. O may my Guardian while I sleep Close to my Bed his Vigils keep, His Love Angelical instill, Stop all the Avenues of Ill. 11. May he Celestial Joys rehearse, And thought to thought with me converse Or in my stead all the Night long, Sing to my God a Grateful Song. 12. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host: Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Ye Shall Have a Song From Randall Thompson’s The Peaceable Kingdom, written in 1936 Performed by the Choral Society of Grace Church in the Winter, 2011 Water Night Eric Whitacre, 1995 Performed by Stacy Horn alone on January 10, 2012 Fate and Faith Songs Britlin Losee, 2011 Performed by the Women’s Choir of the Aaron Copland School of Music, 2012

What are you listening to? I love that song.” “It’s the college station. Logan’s show is on,” I say with more than a smidgen of pride. “Hold on.” A second later, Logan’s voice echoes between my radio and hers, which would normally be annoying, but gravelly voice or not, it’s him. “We have a caller. Caller, we’re discussing when was the last time you told someone off. Go ahead.” “Eek.” I can picture her nose crinkle up. “He does not sound happy.” The caller’s voice echoes just like Logan’s did, but this person makes me want to clap my hands over my ears. “I know what’s wrong with you, A.L. It’s that girl, isn’t it? The one you had on the show last week. Well, I’m not going to say I told you so.” “Hold up! I know that voice,” Terra squeals. “I know, right? It’s been driving me crazy but I can’t—” Terra cuts me off. “That’s Rayann.” “No, this girl’s name is Capri.” I pause to listen more. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Logan says. “If you say so,” Capri says, and it feels like a heavenly light of knowledge bursts through my ceiling to shine down while a choir sings in the background. Those words sound exactly as they did a couple of weeks ago when they were spoken to me. “Oh my good gravy, it is her!” I yell into the phone.

I'd been told that Catholic masses were stable and cold with dull organ music so I was surprised when the choir broke into song. They sang in Shona, with African drums and rattles, ngoma ne bosho. The women;s voices merged with men's bass producing an effect that was confusing but beautiful. At Forward with Faith Ministries we only used guitars, western drums and a keyboard, because Pastor Mavumba preached against using African Traditional instruments. He said that before the missionaries came, our people engaged in devil worship, so the instruments they used were the devil's instruments. We sang in English and he preached in English too, when he was not speaking in tongues. I was a bit confused; maybe the Catholic Church was the devil's church after all, but I couldn't stop my foot from tapping along to the music. [88]

Whether the music is traditional or contemporary, classical or popular, there are some things that just should not be put before the assembly because some music doesn’t lend itself to group singing. Some songs have been written with a soloist in mind. Some hymns and songs have easily learned refrains but stanzas that are irregular. The stanzas can be sung by cantors or choirs while the people sing the refrain. Responsorial singing is an old practice in the history of liturgy that can make worship more dynamic. It is often used today in Roman Catholic liturgy as a means of singing psalms and canticles.

From nowhere, a choir raised its voice to the heavens, as angelic as Alex had ever heard. The music lifted from within the grounds and soared toward him. Tears prickled his eyes as he realized it had been months and months since he had heard proper music, and this song was like nothing he had ever heard before. He couldn’t put into words the way it made him feel. Alex sat, helpless to do anything but watch and listen from his solitary spot, as he felt his worries slip away, if only for as long as this dream lasted.

Samurai Song" When I had no roof I made Audacity my roof. When I had No supper my eyes dined. When I had no eyes I listened. When I had no ears I thought. When I had no thought I waited. When I had no father I made Care my father. When I had No mother I embraced order. When I had no friend I made Quiet my friend. When I had no Enemy I opposed my body. When I had no temple I made My voice my temple. I have No priest, my tongue is my choir. When I have no means fortune Is my means. When I have Nothing, death will be my fortune. Need is my tactic, detachment Is my strategy. When I had No lover I courted my sleep.

In the annual Feast of Fools at Christmastime, every rite and article of the Church no matter how sacred was celebrated in mockery. A dominus festi, or lord of the revels, was elected from the inferior clergy—the curés, subdeacons, vicars, and choir clerks, mostly ill-educated, ill-paid, and ill-disciplined—whose day it was to turn everything topsy-turvy. They installed their lord as Pope or Bishop or Abbot of Fools in a ceremony of head-shaving accompanied by bawdy talk and lewd acts; dressed him in vestments turned inside out; played dice on the altar and ate black puddings and sausages while mass was celebrated in nonsensical gibberish; swung censers made of old shoes emitting “stinking smoke”; officiated in the various offices of the priest wearing beast masks and dressed as women or minstrels; sang obscene songs in the choir; howled and hooted and jangled bells while the “Pope” recited a doggerel benediction. At his call to follow him on pain of having their breeches split, all rush violently from the church to parade through the town, drawing the dominus in a cart from which he issues mock indulgences while his followers hiss, cackle, jeer, and gesticulate. They rouse the bystanders to laughter with “infamous performances” and parody preachers in scurrilous sermons. Naked men haul carts of manure which they throw at the populace. Drinking bouts and dances accompany the procession. The whole was a burlesque of the too-familiar, tedious, and often meaningless rituals; a release of “the natural lout beneath the cassock.

It’s already dark, and cold; my breath hangs in the air as I turn my eyes to the sky. The Milky Way  magnifies itself overhead; standing beneath this sparkling vault, the night provokes a sense of awe in me. Space stretches into an immeasurable expanse, my life floating in the gap.

A keen singer, she joined a teachers’ choir that toured the country performing traditional nationalist songs, one of which proclaimed proudly, ‘I am a Slovak and a Slovak I will remain’ – a tune she would happily break into throughout her life.

Yes, it is true: that night the angels began a song that will never ever end. The Savior who rescued your heart now claims your song. Have you joined the choir?

And seeing that it was almost morning I too began to depart when I heard Ever so faintly the whole of the thing: The water and the wind roving northward And the muffled motions of the city Choiring in an inhuman counterpoint So indescribably strange-yet-welcome And full of free glory That as I strained to hear these songs conjoint The sun arose and I was overcome. (From "Ode to the Potomac")

The beauty of this group, I’m coming to understand, is that it allows all of us—whatever our level of self-understanding, whatever issues we’re struggling with—to listen to each other. Listening is an under-rated art. When we offer our attention to someone else, dropping any preconceived notions we might have, our sense of having to be right, or having to prove anything, drops away. Life is fleeting and fragile. Our friends and loved ones will one day be gone. We’re all struggling to find our way. But it braces me to see how, exercising our vulnerability and courage in this way, walking through our little corner of the world, we can’t help but learn from each other.

It definitely helps to have a darning egg as you go through life. Trust me on this. I have found that my tiny church, St. Andrew Presbyterian, has given me a shape to work against—a darning egg—for the last thirty years, what with all these holes. We have a choir of eight people who open their mouths, and a huge sound comes out, a mix of joy, pain, faith and conversational exposition. Spirit rises and falls in the voices, the choir’s and ours. The singing is full-throated and clear, like the sound your finger makes when you run it around the rim of a crystal glass. It is like African singing where people call from various spots and create one sound. Twenty minutes after the first cave children started kicking around the first improvised balls, people started singing. Half an hour later, they found harmonies. Even with a couple of exceptional singers in the choir, you hear a solid spirit of song, rather than how individuals personally embellish it. The rising and falling is like all of us leaning forward together, then leaning backward on our heels, then coming forward together again. Spirit flows, and the sounds keep stirring that spirit, as the breezes from the high open windows above us keep stirring the air. Sometimes the pianist hits a few false notes, or the soloist warbles, and some of us sing along enthusiastically in the wrong key and the old people’s voices dim. But we all keep singing, a mix of magnificence and plainsong that is beautiful, and the hymn plays on.

Isaac released my hand and set his guitar on the floor before hugging the guy. “How the hell are you?” he asked Isaac. “Good, man. God, it’s great to see you.” His friend released him and eyed me. “And who do we have here? Wife? Girlfriend?” My eyes widened, looking to Isaac for help. “My preacher’s daughter. I kidnapped her. She sings in the choir but secretly loves songs about sex.” I fought my usual reaction, which was to turn ten different shades of red and avert my gaze. This was the start of my favorite dream.