This week marks the final Sunday of Lent and the beginning of a week in which the church contemplates the Passion of Christ. The term “passion” is one we hear tossed about quite frequently – as in, follow your passion or find your passion. It does mean to feel deeply about something, but it actually comes from the Greek word πάσχειν (paschein) which means to suffer.   Appropriate for the symbolism found in the story of Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem, the Last Supper, his agonizing time in the Garden of Gethsemane and his arrest, trial and crucifixion. It’s a story of suffering – a quick fall to the lowest of places.

This hymn is sometimes known as the Passion Hymn. It’s words are based on a medieval poem, usually attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux, in which the various verses address the different parts of Christ’s body hanging on the cross. The text we are familiar with comes from the verse speaking of Christ’s head.

O sacred head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, your only crown!
O sacred head, what glory,
what bliss till now was thine!
Yet, though despised and gory,
I joy to call thee mine.

The music was written by Hans Leo Hassler in 1601 and was harmonized by Bach in 1729. It has been used many, many times in musical commemorations of the Passion story as well as simply as a beautiful tune. Bach arranged five stanzas in his St. Matthew Passion, Liszt included an arrangement in his Via Crucis and Paul Simon’s American Tune is based on this hymn.

There is a difficult beauty to this hymn. The tune is of a stunning loveliness and filled with heartbreaking melancholy. The words are hard to read, harder to sing. This is an emotionally charged work that can stir so much feeling. So many questions. I love this hymn and yet am disturbed by it when I allow myself to take in the words. There is suffering, there is pain, there is guilt, there is confusion and a little anger, and there is love. This example of carrying someone else’s burdens so they don’t have to, is powerful. How can we possibly apply this model to our own lives? I’m not sure, but I suspect that it is necessary to try. What a gift to offer. What a gift to receive.

What language shall I borrow
to thank thee, dearest friend,
for this, thy dying sorrow,
thy pity without end?
O make me thine forever,
and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never,
outlive my love to thee.

This week I present a hymn that is actually a Lenten hymn! Although, the history of it didn’t exactly match up with my expectations of a hymn that is quite commonly heard at this time of year. The words were first published around 1811 as a camp song and are sometimes attributed to Methodist minister Alexander Means, but it is unclear if he actually wrote them. The music, however, has a more interesting story. There are many examples in early church music (when it was unusual for people to be able to read – words or music), where it was common to set religious words to a popular tune for ease of learning and appeal.  This is one of those hymns. It is the same tune as the English song The Ballad of Captain Kidd (c.1701), which describes the exploits of pirate William Kidd. It may even predate that, and apparently there were at least a dozen popular songs to this tune at the time. So, a pretty gloomy camp song, with pirate music ends up being a Lenten standard. I guess we never know where things may end up!

I was quite pleased that someone suggested this hymn. I’ve always loved the haunting tune and the way the words repeat in order to get the point across. Sort of adding weight with each repetition, becoming heavier and heavier until we all start to sing, bearing this weight together, by the millions.

What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul, for my soul,
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul.

When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down,
When I was sinking down, sinking down,
When I was sinking down beneath God’s righteous frown,
Christ laid aside His crown for my soul, for my soul,
Christ laid aside His crown for my soul.

To God and to the Lamb, I will sing, I will sing;
To God and to the Lamb, I will sing.
To God and to the Lamb Who is the great “I Am”;
While millions join the theme, I will sing, I will sing;
While millions join the theme, I will sing.

Maybe this one is a turning point in my Lenten theme of aloneness.   Maybe as we face our spiritual journeys alone, we have the choice to do so in the company of many. Different voices. Probably different words, ideas, perspectives. But all singing for strength and comfort. Singing in praise. Singing in community.  I take comfort in that. It is what moves me when I sing many of these hymns despite concerns I may have over some of the words; some of the church’s history; some of my own pain as a result of conflict and struggle within the church. There is something to be said for joining our voices. To sing with millions – regardless of who or where they are – is a magnificent example of the ideal of wondrous love. So we sing, campers and pirates alike. And when we do, we are all carried by the strength of a million voices.

I love Spirituals. They are so filled with story and emotion. They have hidden meanings and deep pain, faith and strength. And they are often such beautiful, simple tunes that can evoke so much feeling. I couldn’t find much information on this one, other than many variations of the words, but there is an explanation of it that I found revealing.  It is said to be a reference to what was left to the freed slaves after the American Civil War. In other words, in a state of extreme poverty and an absence of worldly possessions or the means to earn a living, there is a sense that the words “you can have all this world” were a criticism of how these people were treated following this apparent victory. But the claim of “give me Jesus” also implies deep faith in what was a time of increasing religiosity.

Give me Jesus,
Give me Jesus,
You can have all this world,
Give me Jesus.

I’ve chosen to place this one in Lent because it continues with the theme of facing our spiritual journey alone. We must all come to terms with how to do that and how, specifically, we face the ultimate personal experience of death. Not something we like to talk about, but something we all carry in common.

Oh, when I am alone,
Oh, when I am alone,
Oh, when I am alone,
Give me Jesus.

Oh, when I come to die,
Oh, when I come to die,
Oh, when I come to die,
Give me Jesus.

It really is a testament to someone’s faith or spiritual strength to sing words like these. To be so confident in the source of strength even in the darkest, loneliest moments, is very moving. It is inspiring. I suspect it is rare. I think we spend our lives searching for that personal confidence and strength – hoping to have it when our time arrives. I’m pretty sure I’ve been hearing this since my Sunday School days, but I think the secret to this kind of deep faith and spiritual strength lies in what we do every day. The strength that carries us through challenges is built by choice and over time. Perhaps looking for it every morning allows us to be comforted by it in the evening, and to be carried by it through the night. What a thing to learn from those freed slaves. What a legacy for us to honour.

In the morning when I rise,
In the morning when I rise,
In the morning when I rise,
Give me Jesus.