#hymn

A religious life is a struggle and not a hymn. ↗

— Madame de Stael

#life #life is a #religious #religious life #struggle

Chronological time is what we measure by clocks and calendars; it is always linear, orderly, quantifiable, and mechanical. Kairotic time is organic, rhythmic, bodily, leisurely, and aperiodic; it is the inner cadence that brings fruit to ripeness, a woman to childbirth, a man to change the direction of his life. ↗

— Sam Keen

#change

Return, O wanderer, now return, And seek thy Father’s face; Those new desires which in thee burn Were kindled by His grace. Return, O wanderer, now return, And wipe the falling tear: Thy Father calls, - no longer mourn; ’Tis love invites thee near ↗

— William Benco Collyer

#love

The first time I ever played the trumpet in public, I played the Marine Hymn. I sounded terrible. ↗

— Wynton Marsalis

#first #first time #hymn #i #marine

The democratic and pedestrian character of the new Mass itself seems to invite the ditties that pass for hymns these days. ↗

— Richard Morris

#days #democratic #ditties #hymns #invite

When I was a child, Mama had the best voice of all the members of the church. She had loved to sing. Her words had soared like an angel's over the swells of the organ. In fact, I now suspected, her entire theology had been taken from the hymnal. ↗

— Siri Mitchell

#hymns #music #religion #singing #beauty

It is natural to speak of hymns as "poems," indiscriminately, for they have the same structure. But a hymn is not necessarily a poem, while a poem that can be sung as a hymn is something more than a poem. Imagination makes poems; devotion makes hymns. There can be poetry without emotion, but a hymn never. A poem may argue; a hymn must not. In short to be a hymn, what is written must express spiritual feelings and desires. The music of faith, hope and charity will be somewhere in its strain. ↗

— Hezekiah Butterworth

#theology #faith

The gospel brings tidings, glad tidings indeed, To mourners in Zion, who want to be freed, From sin and Satan, and Mount Sinai’s flame, Good news of salvation, through Jesus the Lamb. What sweet invitations, the gospel contains, To men heavy laden, with bondage and chains; It welcomes the weary, to come and be blessed, With ease from their burdens, in Jesus to rest. For every poor mourner, who thirsts for the Lord, A fountain is opened, in Jesus the Word; Their poor parched conscience, to cool and to wash, From guilt and pollution, from dead works and dross. A robe is provided, their shame now to hide, In which none are clothed, but Jesus' bride; Though it be costly, yet is the robe free, And all Zion’s mourners, shall decked with it be. ↗

— William Gadsby

#puritan #reformed #men

Right now there’s a man on the street outside my door with outstretched hands full of heartbeats no one can hear. He has cheeks like torn sheet music every tear-broken crescendo falling on deaf ears. At his side there’s a boy with eyes like an anthem no one stands up for. ↗

— Andrea Gibson

#heartbeats #pole-dancing-to-gospel-hymnes #music

I know this world is far from perfect. I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon. I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic. But every ocean has a shoreline and every shoreline has a tide that is constantly returning to wake the songbirds in our hands, to wake the music in our bones, to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that new born river that has to run through the center of our hearts to find its way home. ↗

— Andrea Gibson

#home #kiss #pole-dancing-to-gospel-hymnes #music