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The
Song of the Heart
by Doug Talley
Editor’s
Note: Please send your poetry to poetry@meridianmagazine.com
to be considered for publishing. We’d love to hear from you.
Along the west bank of the Cuyahoga River, the slow summer sun,
the gentle, placid wind, with their mild refreshments, were ready
made for paradise. At a bend in the river I saw two silver maples,
within twenty feet of each other, losing grip on the riverbank and
sliding, albeit at a glacial pace, into the water. It was clear
the soil of their footing had washed away during a spring torrent.
Although their roots still held to the bank, the trees leaned sideways
over the water some thirty feet to span the river, perhaps reluctant
to serve as bridges, but suggesting that purpose nonetheless.
I could have
walked on, but I heard something in the voice of the water that
hinted at why the ancients believed in river gods. I had to stop
and listen and take note. I slipped in between the two trees and
sat on a log that had washed up to the bank. The canopy of the trees’
foliage flashed green and silver with the breeze and formed a pocket
over the water – the perfect nave of a temple. The spot was
hallowed, numinous. I sat in a kind of inner sanctum, a holy of
holies.
What I heard
went something like this: The human spirit, that spirit unique to
the individual, has a voice like river water spilling over stone.
The voice flows continuously. It never sleeps nor tires. It purls
ever so gently and unobtrusively. It is quiet and very still, hard
to understand, quite easy to ignore. It does not speak the stream
of our consciousness, but rather the stream of our unconscious,
and reveals all that is pure and noble and holy within us. When
we are fortunate enough to hear this voice, if we are not careful,
we may mistake it for mere babbling. It will say many things passionately
all at once, all with one constant flowing breath, while tending
all the time to a singular meaning. When translated the effect is
poetry, when dismissed, anxiety or even madness. This voice never
repeats itself, but neither does it vary nor stray from its sphere.
It wants to flow continuously to God, content as it is, never full,
yet never empty.
If we pay close
attention and lift this pure voice to some tangible surface, knowing
we cannot strip it from its source, it will mark what is eternal
and ancient within us, what will transform with time into the voice
of a god. The voice is calm and peaceful and full of wisdom, worthy
of one’s deepest devotion. It translates into light.
The voice of
this spirit calls to mind the paradox of Heracleitus that we do
not step into the same river twice, and yet we do. When we do step
into this current, we find ourselves reluctant to leave. And when
we do leave, we find we want to return again and again. Once tasted,
we relish this water forever.
I wanted to
test this principle for myself, to walk out into the river, stepping
from stone to stone, and immerse myself in the water’s voice
to hear if it would echo the flow of my own spirit. The water was
cold to my feet and ankles, the river stones smooth and hard. I
waded out to the middle of the river, cupped my hand and drank.
I listened as I swallowed. I heard within me the simple sound of
water falling over stone repeatedly. “I am ancient,”
said the voice, “Ancient. Older than all flesh and the dreams
of the flesh.”
After I drank
I saw a goldfinch drop to a small stone at the river’s edge.
It dipped its small splinter of a beak deftly into the water and
drank also. I was in good company. I took, as a sign from heaven,
that what gave the goldfinch song would give me song as well, and
song also to any other person who desired it, unforced and natural,
flowing without end, more ancient than the dreams of all flesh,
and as eternal as God.
To find this
song within us brings joy, not only to ourselves and to others,
but even to God. As recorded in modern day scripture, the Lord has
said:
“[M]y
soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous
is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon
theirs heads.” (Doctrine & Covenants 25:12).
I like to believe
that every human being, every son and daughter of God, possesses
a unique and compelling song born of the spirit. I also like to
believe that part of the felicity we will find in heaven includes
the opportunity to discover our own singular style of song and expand
upon it eternally to the glory of God. It hardly matters in this
life if we are illiterate or tone deaf. That is only a temporal
condition. Each of us possesses a divinely appointed gift for worship,
which naturally unfolds in song. We can begin now to develop that
gift, line upon line and precept upon precept, beginning with the
small until it develops into that which is great.
An example of
one who developed the gift of song abundantly in this life is the
English lyricist, Isaac Watts. Born in 1674, he was the eldest of
nine children of a minister. His father was a leading dissenter
against the Church of England and was in prison at the time of his
son’s birth. As a youth, Isaac Watts found fault with the
language of the psalms sung in church. Encouraged by his father,
he determined to write his own translations. He had studied Greek,
Latin, French, and Hebrew, and eventually produced a metered and
rhymed version of the entire Psalter. He is credited with writing
over 600 hymns and is considered the “father of English hymnody”.
Isaac Watts
is well known among Latter-day Saints for popular hymns incorporated
in the LDS Hymnal, including Joy to the World and O God, Our Help
in Ages Past. He appears in the LDS Hymnal more than any other lyricist
who lived prior to the latter-day restoration of the gospel. He
is represented in the hymnal as frequently as Parley P. Pratt and
second only to William W. Phelps. So familiar is his work, one can
hardly read his lyrics without breaking into melody.
The following
represents some of his finest work. Read and enjoy and worship,
even in song if the mood so strikes.
Hymn
# 147
Sweet is the
work, my God, my King,
To praise thy name, give thanks and sing,
To show thy love by morning light,
And talk of all thy truths at night.
Sweet is this
day of sacred rest.
No mortal care shall seize my breast.
Oh, may my heart in tune be found,
Like David’s harp of solemn sound!
My heart shall
triumph in my Lord
And bless his works and bless his word.
Thy works of grace, how bright they shine!
How deep thy counsels, how divine!
But, oh, what
triumph shall I raise
To thy dear name through endless days,
When in the realms of joy I see
Thy face in full felicity!
Sin, my worst
enemy before,
Shall vex my eyes and ears no more.
My inward foes shall all be slain,
Nor Satan break my peace again.
Then shall I
see and hear and know
All I desired and wished below,
And every pow’r find sweet employ
In that eternal world of joy.
Hymn #192
He died! The
great Redeemer died,
And Israel’s daughters wept around.
A solemn darkness veiled the sky;
A sudden trembling shook the ground.
Come, Saints,
and drop a tear or two
For him who groaned beneath your load;
He shed a thousand drops for you,
A thousand drops of precious blood.
Here’s
love and grief beyond degree;
The Lord of glory died for men.
But lo! What sudden joys were heard!
The Lord, though dead, revived again.
The rising
Lord forsook the tomb.
In vain the tomb forbade him rise.
Cherubic legions guard him home,
And shout him welcome to the skies.
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