A NEW SONG
Sing a new song
Sing it out loud
Sing a new song
TO JESUS
Sing a new song
From the depths of your soul
Sing a new song
Out of the weakness you know
Sing a new song
Sing it with love
Sing a new song
TO JESUS
Sing a new song
From the heights of your faith
Sing a new song
In the strength of His grace
Sing a new song
Sing it with joy
Sing a new song
TO JESUS
---
Jeffrey E Pollock
Sing a new song
Sing it out loud
Sing a new song
TO JESUS
Sing a new song
From the depths of your soul
Sing a new song
Out of the weakness you know
Sing a new song
Sing it with love
Sing a new song
TO JESUS
Sing a new song
From the heights of your faith
Sing a new song
In the strength of His grace
Sing a new song
Sing it with joy
Sing a new song
TO JESUS
---
Jeffrey E Pollock
February 28, 2009
---
Some Melodious Sonnet
In the book Night, Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel describes a moment in
the concentration camp frozen in his memory. In the darkened corner of
room, where the dead were slumped beside the living, his friend Juliek
sat with his violin. On the brink of his own grave, he played notes pure
and heavy to an audience of dead and dying men. Wiesel recalls, "[I]t
was as though Juliek's soul were the bow. He was playing his life.
The whole of his life was gliding on the strings--his lost hopes, his
charred past, his extinguished future. He played as he would never
play again."(1) I cannot make sense of this scene other than to say,
there are times when the gravity of a song flattens us. To this day,
Wiesel admits, he cannot hear the sound of a violin without memory
of Juliek dismantling all other thoughts. Perhaps similarly, you
have been floored by a memory locked in a melody or leveled by
the words of a song. In a very real sense, these are the images of
worship. The Hebrew word for worship conjures a physical image,
an outward response to an inward affection; to worship the Lord
whether in song or in silence means "to prostrate oneself" before the
Almighty. Far too often, this is not the result of the songs I sing.
It was for such a reason that John Wesley offered his congregation a list
of guidelines for singing, even providing encouragement for the one who
would claim he could not. In the preface to Sacred Melody, published in
1761, he wrote, "Sing all... Let not a slight degree of weakness or
weariness hinder you. If it is a cross to you, take it up and you will find
a blessing." He had in mind both the expression of the community and
the heart of the individual. Sing lustily, sing modestly, and with good
courage, he instructed. Wesley sought to remind all that it takes audacity
to approach a God holy and mighty, and boldness to sing of a hope
weighted in God's glory. "Above all, sing spiritually," he concluded.
"Have an eye to God in every word you sing. Aim at pleasing Him
more than yourself, or any other creature... [A]ttend strictly to the
sense of what you sing, and see that your Heart is not carried away
with the sound, but offered to God continually."
---
Some Melodious Sonnet
In the book Night, Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel describes a moment in
the concentration camp frozen in his memory. In the darkened corner of
room, where the dead were slumped beside the living, his friend Juliek
sat with his violin. On the brink of his own grave, he played notes pure
and heavy to an audience of dead and dying men. Wiesel recalls, "[I]t
was as though Juliek's soul were the bow. He was playing his life.
The whole of his life was gliding on the strings--his lost hopes, his
charred past, his extinguished future. He played as he would never
play again."(1) I cannot make sense of this scene other than to say,
there are times when the gravity of a song flattens us. To this day,
Wiesel admits, he cannot hear the sound of a violin without memory
of Juliek dismantling all other thoughts. Perhaps similarly, you
have been floored by a memory locked in a melody or leveled by
the words of a song. In a very real sense, these are the images of
worship. The Hebrew word for worship conjures a physical image,
an outward response to an inward affection; to worship the Lord
whether in song or in silence means "to prostrate oneself" before the
Almighty. Far too often, this is not the result of the songs I sing.
It was for such a reason that John Wesley offered his congregation a list
of guidelines for singing, even providing encouragement for the one who
would claim he could not. In the preface to Sacred Melody, published in
1761, he wrote, "Sing all... Let not a slight degree of weakness or
weariness hinder you. If it is a cross to you, take it up and you will find
a blessing." He had in mind both the expression of the community and
the heart of the individual. Sing lustily, sing modestly, and with good
courage, he instructed. Wesley sought to remind all that it takes audacity
to approach a God holy and mighty, and boldness to sing of a hope
weighted in God's glory. "Above all, sing spiritually," he concluded.
"Have an eye to God in every word you sing. Aim at pleasing Him
more than yourself, or any other creature... [A]ttend strictly to the
sense of what you sing, and see that your Heart is not carried away
with the sound, but offered to God continually."
How often do we take in the enormity of the joy set
before us, the weight of the words we profess?
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.
How often do we fathom the proclamations we make in our songs?
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.
And how many of the oaths we make are even unattainable with-
out the intervention of Christ and the bold surrender of our souls?
out the intervention of Christ and the bold surrender of our souls?
O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I'm constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here's my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.
Daily I'm constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here's my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.
On the occasions that we are leveled by God in the words we sing, it
seems odd that we could ever have remained standing in the first place.
Perhaps these are the times when God knocks us off our feet and leaves
us like Isaiah, speechless in his presence. "The Truth must dazzle
gradually," wrote Emily Dickinson. "Or every man be blind." Sometimes
gently, sometimes fearfully, God reveals Himself to our hearts and minds.
Other times of worship require much more of us. We fight distractions
and judgments, selfishness and pride. But we press on, taking thoughts
captive, confessing the pride that blocks our vision, standing with
determination to attend to what we sing. "For a time is coming and has
now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit
and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks"
(John 4:23). A distracted, rejected, ill-reputed woman at a well was
the first recipient of these words. With her eyes on Christ and her
heart on her sleeve, she was leveled by God's glory
and given a new song to sing.
Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at
Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.
(1) Elie Wiesel, Night (New York: Bantam, 1982), 90.
