The LORD has said that he would dwell in thick darkness. 2 Chron. vi. 1.
“God has said in shadow clouded
He will dwell,” all else apart,
From the dark by darkness shrouded,
And in such has lain my heart,
Yet thy glory’s pillar, blazing
Like the first Creation morn,
Shines within, my spirit raising:
“Let there be” the dead reborn.
When the Adversary’s temptrance
Lies in wait to lead astray,
Grant us easy, quick repentance
To regain thy narrow way,
Till our heart and soul and vigor
Join in glorified accord,
Freed from flesh-restraining rigor,
To enjoy thee as their Lord.
Gracious Spirit, our salvation
Keep till grace’s work is done;
Let us fear no condemnation
As we live within the Son;
Bid us seek the Father’s glory
Till to glory we draw nigh,
Where our endless, laudatory
Song will praise thee, Lord on high.
—To Nettleton (“Come, Thou Fount”).
I. 2 Chron 6:1; Ex 13:21-22; 2 Cor 4:6
II. 1 Pet 5:8; Matt 7:13-14; Deut 6:5; Col 3:5-10; Jude 1:24-25
III. Eph 1:13-14; Rom 8:1; Matt 6:33; Rev 4:8-11
I feel like I had a lot to say about this one, but now I can’t remember any of it. I guess that means maybe I got more of it into the text than I think I did. I am pleased with it, it required all my skill and I like to think there is felicity in what it does say, yet it feels inadequate to all I wish I could say. “The LORD has said that he would dwell in thick darkness,” and my heart is the thick darkness in which he dwells, as I wrote in my September meditations.
This summer I have been chewing on a thought of Calvin’s: “we are bidden to ‘love God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our faculties’ [Deut. 6:5; Matt. 22:37]. Since all the capacities of our soul ought to be so filled with the love of God, it is certain that this precept is not fulfilled by those who can either retain in the heart a slight inclination or admit to the mind any thought at all that would lead them away from the love of God into vanity…. Therefore, when these lay themselves open to vain and depraved thoughts, do they not show themselves to be in such degree empty of the love of God?” (Institutes 3.3.11). A heavy burden, but all hope in ourselves must be destroyed before we can properly trust ourselves to the Father’s mercy and the Savior’s grace. And it is comforting to have the simple formula, If I am tempted, it is because there is something temptable in me; therefore on it must be sprayed the flamethrower of repentance and for it supplicated the gentle showers of grace. It is humbling—even humiliating—but sweet.
Sin will rear up. I am only ever more conscious of it, and only ever more dependent on grace and mercy’s timeliness (Heb 4:16). I wrote a friend that I pray for him both abundant blessings and sufficient graces (2 Cor 12:9), and I realized I was praying for myself too. I am learning to walk with Israel’s limp (Gen 32:22-32). I am learning to be pruned (John 15:2). I am learning to live as a sacrifice (Rom 12:1). I am learning to let others help me bear the burden of sin (Gal 6:2). I did not anticipate the grace they have shown nor the help they have given. They have been an unexpected mirror of the throne of grace.
I am learning not to be sorry for myself. If you have been reading this summer you have found me anxious and careworn, yet even so I am continually reminded that the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases (Lam 3:22). I hold fast to him in love, I know his name, and he is showing me his salvation (Ps 91:14-16). I am being trained to set my hope on the dependable grace of the Lord Jesus (1 Pet 1:13) instead of anything that passes away. I wander the wilderness, but the pillar of fire and cloud—that thick darkness again—goes before me, and the glory of the Lord behind (Ex 13:21-22; Isa 58:8).
It is wonderful, in the old, awed sense of the word: I wonder at it: I am pressed but uncrushed, perplexed but undespairing. Sometimes I am so tired in spirit, and often lately even in body, that it feels like dying. Melodramatic hyperbole, to be sure. But let the life of Christ shine in this jar of clay (2 Cor 4:7-18). Lest we be crushed by the eternal heaviness of his glory, the Lord trains us with finger weights of light, momentary affliction.
I’ve been rambling. I don’t know if any of it made sense. I don’t know that I need it to, or even whether I want it to in so public a medium. I don’t think much of that angst or resignation made it into the poem. Inadequacy. These thoughts feel too personal to use plural pronouns in the hymn, but as I wrote to music for the second time in a decade, it seemed a shame not to at least try to shape it for corporate use. I can’t rhyme ‘apart’ with ‘our hearts’ though, so the singular pronouns stay in the first stanza.
The hope made it in though; that’s the main thing. Forgive my melancholy. Mine may be the thick darkness, but the Lord dwells in it. Joy inexpressible (Ps 94:19).
My writing was guided by Nathan Clark George’s setting of this tune. It exposits “Come, Thou Fount” in the way good instrumentation will, and it was a blessing to let it mold the shape of my own work. If the YouTube embed should break, it is “Neddleton (Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing)” from his 2007 album Rise in the Darkness. I think I have been listening to it for over half my life now.
You should write to music more often, Friend. This is beautiful.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed reading through your approach to writing this. Weaving multiple scripture passages into one setting is a novel idea to me (and something I’ve noticed over the past few months in your work because, yes, I love reading your poetry). You’ve inspired me to try this myself in my own writing.
Your statement, “If I am tempted, it is because there is something temptable in me,” hit home hard. That’s a self-realization I know all too well in my own Christian walk. After two days rumination, I remembered a quote from “The Life of God in the Soul of Man” that has been of comfort to me in my own moments of severe temptation:
“The worth and excellency of a soul is to be measured by the object of its love. He who loveth mean and sordid things doth thereby become base and vile, but a noble and well-placed affection doth advance and improve the spirit into a conformity with the perfections which it loves.”
― Henry Scougal, The Life of God in the Soul of Man
For what it’s worth, your writing is indicative of a well-placed affection for Christ Himself. And that, I trust, will bring you (as I trust it will bring me) into great conformity with Christ’s perfections over time, even though the progress may be slow and painful on the daily grind.
Thank you for a peek behind the curtain. It has been an encouragement to me. I pray that God would lift from you whatever is weighing on your heart and bring you His peace.
You do me kindness, Friend.
DeleteIf you are looking for a little more music, I realized this week that last year’s “Confession” runs to Aberystwyth if you double the last line. I have had it stuck in my head all day.
(https://funnytriangle.blogspot.com/2024/08/confession.html)
Originally I started citing my sources so my small group could check my work; now I take it as a challenge to write God’s words after him, to butcher Kepler. I will not have better words than he, and indeed it has improved my work greatly.
I am excited to see what you will do with this technique. I have delighted to reacquaint myself with your work this summer, though I am more timid to comment. I am glad you were not. I will try to be less so.
I was going to say I would look this book up, but I did and now I am halfway done with it. How delightful. I had never thought about Jesus’ humility not arising from sinfulness but creatureliness. And what an unexpected treat to read it open, My Dear Friend, when it came recommended by one I likewise name.
Thank you both for your assessment and your reminder that Christ is the goal both in ourselves and beyond ourselves. It is a shining thought that if we are being changed from glory to glory, then our best praises still lie ahead.
“Your prayers are cherished,” a father tells me often. As are yours. Thank you for the unexpected pleasure of your friendship.
Well, Friend, I did not expect you to look up the book, but I’m so glad you did! <3 It’s a favorite of mine, and I’m so pleased that it resonates with you.
ReplyDeleteI must admit—I read your “Confession” last year, and it may have influenced something I wrote last fall. I deliberately set mine to Aberystwyth, never dreaming that you’d pair the same tune with yours! I am rather delighted that we think alike here.
(https://solagraphia.wordpress.com/2024/09/18/poem-a-prayer-for-rescue/)
Just putting this out there—I don’t want you to feel hesitant about commenting on anything I post. If that hesitation stems from something I’ve done in the past, consider this an open door to talk about it. And if you’d rather not because the memories are too painful, that’s okay, too. The last thing I want is to presume too much on your goodwill.
To be frank, I was floored when I read your reply a few days ago. I wasn’t expecting anything in return—certainly not this. I’ve hardly known what to think. But being named a dear friend by you means more than anything I can put into words. Thank you. I will do my best to honor that. And if it’s not too bold to say, I have long counted you the same.
It is nothing you’ve done, Friend. It is just, from the moment you rapped on my windows this June, I have dreaded possessing a power in your conception of me that might outmatch my ability to wield it. I feared precipitating what you called the “frightening, terrible joy,” yet here it is. Certainly I am baffled that you would call me tender or kind for simply being who I am. I have only written to you as I would write to anyone, save that I have not limited the Pauline length of my sentences.
DeleteI suspect I can baffle you likewise by returning the same. It is easy to call you Friend because here you are being Friendly, with the care you have taken both to engage with my work and thoughts and to protect any latent grief. You have caused me such an anguish of joy by returning! Never in my wildest prayers had I hoped for reconciliation beyond quiet, distant forgiveness. The Lord is able to do far more abundantly than all we ask or think. To him be glory forever.
I saw your piece on crosses from Sunday. I tried to comment, but Wordpress denied me. There was a longer thought, but the gist is that I ache for your cross. The third stanza of “Just across this wilderness” was written with your trials in mind. Remember the Lord! He is your reward at the end of via dolorosa, as you were his on his own cross. He suffered for us, as us; we suffer with him, for him. Words I have needed for myself; how nice to have a Friend to form them for. I pray for you.
(Do not feel obligated, but if you would like to move this conversation somewhere more private, my Gmail is in my profile.)
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