from Luke, KJV:
13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
On this Christmas Eve 2021, I stop to ponder the Christmas Story and wonder at the many mysterious and perhaps hyperbolic accounts found therein. I also wonder what type of mushrooms the shepherds had for dinner that night. But I'm mostly curious about the sound and quality of the music that an angelic choir would produce.
It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth, To touch their harps of gold; “Peace on the earth, good will to men, From Heav’n’s all-gracious King.” The world in solemn stillness lay, To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come With peaceful wings unfurled, And still their heav’nly music floats O’er all the weary world; Above its sad and lowly plains, They bend on hov’ring wing, And ever o’er its Babel sounds The blessed angels sing.
Lyrics by Edmund H. Sears
I welcome the appearance of an angelic choir. As an old goat herder, I don’t believe I would be “sore afraid” if I witnessed a choir of heavenly angels singing in the north eastern sky outside the barn at Merry Mount. On the contrary, I think I would quickly call Robert Bode to run over here to conduct them, and Rett and I would pull up our lawn chairs and enjoy the concert.
Sketch of an Angelic Choir by William Blake
So tonight, on this Christmas Eve, I will be vigilant with eyes and ears, hoping to witness a heavenly choir.
I leave you with one of my favorite poems by Thomas Hardy.
Choirmaster's Burial
He often would ask us That, when he died, After playing so many To their last rest, If out of us any Should here abide, And it would not task us, We would with our lutes Play over him By his grave-brim The psalm he liked best - The one whose sense suits "Mount Ephraim" - And perhaps we should seem To him, in Death's dream, Like the seraphim.
As soon as I knew That his spirit was gone I thought this his due, And spoke thereupon. "I think," said the vicar, "A read service quicker Than viols out-of-doors In these frosts and hoars. That old-fashioned way Requires a fine day, And it seems to me It had better not be."
Hence, that afternoon, Though never knew he That his wish could not be, To get through it faster They buried the master Without any tune.
But 'twas said that, when At the dead of next night The vicar looked out, There struck on his ken Thronged roundabout, Where the frost was graying The headstoned grass, A band all in white Like the saints in church-glass, Singing and playing The ancient stave By the choirmaster's grave.
Such the tenor man told When he had grown old. by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
CPW
Comments