Time in a One-Toilet Town: #2

Last Saturday, we returned to Muscongus Island for a reprise of last year's preaching & piping gig. The Summer residents of this unelectrified and (mostly) unplumbed Maine island had just held their annual auction and the annual church meeting was scheduled to commence right after our worship service. The pressure was on to create a worship service that would adequately honour, foster and further this seasonal community's sense of...well, community.

Fortunately, it wasn't entirely up to me. I had two valuable colleagues along for the adventure: The Piper, who managed to share her musical gifts while complying with the island's rigidly informal dress code thanks to her recently acquired "instakilt," and Zoe, our farm dog, who endured the arduous multivehicular journey with grace, if not dignity, and channeled all her herd-dog talents into her new self-assigned role as church greeter and head usher. She gave a whole new meaning to "shepherding the flock."

We were able to stay on the island for two more days after the end of our official duties. Zoe, the Piper and I took several long walks, admiring the rugged beauty of the island, the hints and remnants of the island's once year-round community, and the weathered old houses, oddly bedecked with both seasonal ephemera and accouterments of sustainability. One particular walk to the island's main cemetery held a special poignancy. As we walked among the lichen-etched stones, we read the century-old names of young people lost in their prime to illness or the sea. I thought about my Grandmother, who died just a week before at the age of 87, and felt humble and thankful for her--and all the lives that have bridged the distance between other island hearts and mine.

Here is the sermon preached at Loudsville Church, Muscongus Island, Maine, on August 8, 2010:

ONE FOR THE BIRDS

I want to tell you about my Grandma Charlotte. I want to share something about her, because, while we worship together in this small island church, the rest of my family is just on the edge of waking up in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains where they gathered yesterday for her funeral. She lived to be 87 years old, vital and joyful 'til the end. I miss her.

What I remember most about Grandma's house was the clutter. It was friendly clutter. It supported all manner of conversations. If we talked about crafts, Grandma probably had everything you needed in a drawer or a box...somewhere. If we talked about science, history, or culture, she would draw on her extensive collection of Smithsonian Magazines and National Geographics. Grandma was also a highly-skilled yard-saler. She and Grandpa would trundle around Colorado in their old avocado-green VW bus, finding the most astounding things and happily tucking them away for useful occasions. Each Christmas, our family would receive a large box addressed in Grandma Charlotte's handwriting. There would be at least three items for every single member of the family: at least two yard-sale finds, a fossil or mineral to add to our rock collections, and the annual renewal of our own family's subscription to National Geographic.

Grandma loved to find things, hold on to them a while, then pass them on. Other than rockhounding, it was her favorite sport. She was at once a magpie and a messiah, gathering bright, shiny objects into her nest, guided by a belief that everything was worth rescuing, worth saving. And she kept it all up for many years, still sending her famous boxes even when I was in college and grad school. But, as Grandma and Grandpa got older, they ventured out less and less. After Grandpa's death, it became too much of a chore to pack those heavy Christmas boxes and get them to the post office. We didn't mind terribly much. A card and a phone call were just as good, if not better. But, there in that modest little house in Boulder, Colorado, there was still all...that...clutter. She was tripping over it in the hallway. She was bumping against it on the stairs. Grandma got frustrated. She spent time almost every day sorting through it, but she couldn't bring herself to actually throw anything away. One pile would be sorted into half a dozen piles, and they would gradually shift and merge into other sorted piles, and then the mess would be in everyone's way all over again. The task absorbed more and more of her time and her failing energy.

I've been that kind of magpie messiah. Grandma taught me well. I've gathered plenty of bright shiny objects myself, and I've done my best to work them into my nest. I've rescued other people's discards, glued them back together, filed the rough edges, and claimed them as my treasures, additions to my collection. I've welcomed clutter as a rebellion against waste. I hate to throw anything away.

But that's not the kind of savior Jesus meant to be. He had a different message in mind: He said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. Consider the ravens: they neither sew nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them.

Consider the ravens. The raven is the bird of battlefields and garbage dumps, the eater of carrion. Shepherds and farmers were forever driving them away from potential sources of food. They were unwelcome, unwanted scavengers, trash-pickers, pests. They were unclean creatures and unfit for human consumption, according to Jewish law. Where I grew up, in the Pacific Northwest, Native people tell stories of Raven the Trickster, Raven the Traveler, Raven, the Creator's go-between, the bringer of news. In the story of the Great Flood, Noah sends out a raven before he sends out a dove, but then it disappears behind the curtains and the dove gets all the good press. Ravens are like flying shadows upon which we heap all the darkness of our imaginations.

And yet... have you ever watched ravens? Did you know that, if one young raven finds food—even the smallest bit of food—it will call out to all the other ravens around, inviting them to share it? Did you know that they mate for life, and that an older pair will take one or two younger birds under their wing—so to speak—and train them as nannies, teaching them to care for the newly-hatched young so that they'll be better parents when they're ready to hatch out their own? Did you know they often work in teams to drive off a threatening owl or a hawk? The Creator of both humans and ravens must have loved these “unclean” creatures very much to give them such gifts, for they have not only an abundance of food, but also an abundance of fellowship, an abundance of community.

For Grandma Charlotte, it was the abundance of her community that shook her loose from all her stuff. One by one, friends and family began to visit, to sit and soak up her stories, to laugh and chat—and to help her sort. Wealthy with companionship, she began to care for her “friendly clutter” less and less. Surrounded by loving support, she was able to start letting go. The recycling bins filled up rapidly. The hallway and stairs seemed to grow wider. You didn't have to think so much about where you might put your feet. Best of all, the burden of care was lifted. Grandma was free to devote her remaining energy to the things that made her thrive: relationships, learning, and the exercise of curiosity and delight that made her a true joy to be with.

“...And do not keep worrying. For it is the nations of the world that strive after all these things, and your Father knows that you need them. Instead, strive for his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well. Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

What is our treasure? Not the clutter, the possessions that bind us and hinder us and weigh us down. You know that already, or you wouldn't have made the effort to carve out time to be in this place. And this “little flock” has already shown that you know how to sell possessions and give alms—yesterday's auction accomplished a bit of that, even if the possessions did just move on to somebody else. In fact, the more we keep things moving, the closer to God's community we'll be. This way, we defy the human powers that would keep us hoarding our petty treasures. This way, we create an economy of blessings and gifts, where the only real value of things is in the way they keep moving between us. We become richer and richer—as a community—the more gifts we share with each other.

Here we are, together on this small island. Here we are, blessed with a place of abundance. We can leave behind the fear-mongering headlines, the power-plays of the nations of the world. Instead, we can watch the ravens and sea-birds playing games with the wind, feasting on spare bits and scraps with joyful abandon. Here, we can study the lilies of the field, the trails bedecked with blooming plants and bushes laden with berries. Here, together, as we share meals and stories, as we greet each other on the paths and gently tend this beloved place, we are indeed striving towards God's kingdom. Here, we rest in the peace of wild things, learn to share our gifts, and let all of Creation teach us of faith, hope and grace.

Time in a One-Toilet Town

We wouldn't want to get too far above ourselves, so this past weekend we took a wee break from the drudgery of house-building and mud-farming for a holiday in a one-toilet town.

We were headed to Muscongus Island, a small (3 miles by one mile) island in Midcoast Maine. Our friends Julia and Fred, of Castlebay, helped us get the gig--the job of preparing and leading worship for this wee island "community" the morning after a Castlebay-led ceilidh on the deck of one of the summer residents' homes. This island no longer boasts any year-round residents--the last one left more than a generation ago--but the older Summer Folk can still recall many of the permanent residents, their ways of life and their stories.

The island has some odd dynamics. It is an ever-changing collection of people who live in close proximity yet rarely think of themselves as a community. There are no electrical lines, no televisions, no paved roads and no land-line telephones. (Actually, they tried to install a telephone system several years ago, but it never quite worked. You can still find remnants of the wire decaying along the tractor-paths that connect some of the more remote houses.) The island--until very recently--also had no flush toilets.

Everyone still proudly uses their outhouses except one Mr. Plimpton, who first earned the other residents' scorn by gutting a historic island house of its ornate decor to make way for modern decor. He then used his lawyerly skills and deep pockets to acquire permits, bring over heavy equipment and materials, and install the island's first flush toilet and septic system.

The other Summer Folk responses ranged from disgust to righteous indignation. By tacit agreement, they had abided by the common understanding of minimal impacts and respect of limited resources. They had invested in solar lights to cut down on their use of kerosene. They were careful to pack out all their trash...but Mr. Plimpton, apparently, couldn't trouble himself to abide by Island Common Sense.

As I prepared for the weekend on the island, I wrestled with my sermon. What could I say? After all, I was just another non-islander, another Person From Away. It was Julia who suggested I think in terms of other islands--the islands I've visited in Scotland, and the island, far to our west, on which I grew up. That was helpful-- every island has some sort of resource-use issue. Every island copes with the tension of building and maintaining a sense of community. But I still figured I'd have to go off-lectionary.

The Common Lectionary is a three-year ecumenical cycle of Bible readings designed to expose congregations to the vast majority of the Bible's themes, books, and important stories. Each week's readings include a reading from the Old Testamant/Hebrew Scriptures, Something from the Book of Psalms, Something from one of the Gospels, and a reading from one of the New Testament Epistles. Usually I try to stick to the lectionary readings--it's a good discipline, a sort of "writing prompt" for preachers. The weekly challenge is to find, in the assigned readings, something that speaks to a news item or community issue, and then craft a sermon that reflects honest engagement with the historical texts in light of our contemporary situation(s).

I figured I'd have to go off-lectionary for sure--what could a two-thousand-year-old collection of letters, poems and stories possibly say to a bunch of islanders in 2009 who were upset about a flush toilet? Well, might as well read the lectionary list for this week before I get on with the work... HAH! What I found were a bunch of people stuck in the wilderness together, worried about their food supply, and an early church congregation arguing over the relative value of each other's gifts. As they say, "That'll preach." (Readings may be found here. I used the readings from Exodus 16 and Ephesians 4.)

The piper and I arrived on the island Saturday evening by small power-boat. We weighed down the three-bench boat with unusual cargo: a fiddle, a guitar, Great Highland Bagpipes, Scottish Smallpipes, assorted flutes and whistles, bags of food and clothing, a large Celtic harp, three musicians, one preacher, and one very nervous farmdog. There were folks waiting at the dock to haul all our gear up the hill through the deep, dark mud created by a summer of unusually heavy rain. We set up for the ceilidh on the deck and enjoyed a lovely summer evening: music, potluck snacks, and an after-ceilidh supper at the home of the island's spry 85-year-old historian.

Sunday morning dawned with sweet birdsong and pearly light. The Piper and I had slept in the parsonage attached to the island church--our room was right next to the belltower. As instructed, I pulled the rope and rang the bell at fifteen minutes to nine to call the islanders to church. The Piper was poised and ready outside. As soon as I finished ringing the bell, she struck in her pipes and played in the thickening mist as the islanders made their way along the footpaths. Children were carried on shoulders. Dogs came as well, too rambunctious to tell if they were wearing their Sunday-go-to-meeting collars and leashes.

After the welcome and announcements and prayer of invocation, we had a hymn sing. People called out suggestions and a woman jumped up and offered to play the piano as we sang a few verses of each favourite hymn. As they opened their mouths and sang out the first hymn, such a glorious blend of strong voices and sweet harmonies arose--such a joyful noise in such a dear wee kirk! I felt deeply blessed by the Spirit moving in that place.

A young woman from the congregation read the first Bible reading, and I read the second. Next came the sermon:

SERMON FOR LOUDVILLE CHURCH, MUSCONGUS ISLAND, AUGUST 2, 2009:

It was a summer Sunday like this one, the air heavy with moisture and salt, no other cars on the roads, just the rise and fall of the ancient stone hills before us. We were in Scotland. We had just finished a week on the island of South Uist at a traditional music school. Now, with another student, we had rented a car to spend the weekend exploring the rest of the Outer Hebrides. It had seemed like a great idea-- pack four musicians and all their gear into a station wagon, grab food along the way, and wander merrily wherever we wanted.

Our traveling companion was fascinated by standing stones, and since he was our driver, we happily agreed to let our path be plotted by the locations of significant stones. Saturday had gone well enough-- we'd meandered through empty fields, along sheep paths and near low stacks of drying peat, to stand in front of this or that ancient monolith, used for nobody-knew-quite-what. It was a lovely diversion, and we'd been well-fortified by a full Scottish breakfast at a bunkhouse on the island of Harris.

Saturday afternoon, we headed north to the Isle of Lewis, my father's ancestral stomping grounds. The plan was to reach the biggest town, Stornoway, by nightfall, then spend the entire next day heading from one great stone wonder to the next, including the great stone-age fort called the Carloway Broch and the ancient circle of stones at Callanish.

Somehow, though, we'd missed a crucial bit of information. People had warned us, but we hadn't quite believed it. “Fill up your tank the night before; Lewis is closed on Sundays.” We didn't quite realize what it would mean. Lewis, it turns out, is a stronghold of conservative Protestant devotion, and when they keep the Sabbath, they really keep the Sabbath—to the point of padlocking the swings in the public parks.

The morning was beautiful. We went to the lighthouse, dipped our toes in the other side of the Atlantic on a wee white-sanded beach, and watched endangered seabirds wheel above the ledges of some of the oldest rocks in the world. We romped through the remains of thousand-year-old fort. We polished up the last of our crackers and cheese and looked forward to afternoon tea at the Callanish visitors' centre, complete with a view of the standing stones.

But the visitors' centre was closed. The grocery store in the next town was closed. The petrol stations and convenience shops were closed. Even on a summer weekend, even at the height of the tourist season, Everything Really. Was. Closed.

We kept driving, bellies grumbling and growling, scanning the wide expanse of peat bogs and lichen-encrusted stones that reached to the horizon, hoping less and less for another picture-perfect monolith, hoping more and more for a convenience store around the next bend... Our panic continued to rise as the light faded from the sky. We realized we'd misunderstood the rules, misinterpreted our guides. We wanted bread. The island offered us nothing but stones.

Then we remembered Maggie. Maggie was a classmate of ours at the traditional music school. She'd introduced herself as a local girl—she lived on Harris. In the friendly, welcoming way of the Highlanders, she'd invited us to drop by. “Especially if you're there on the Sabbath;” she had said, “You'll need a home-cooked meal then.” Her remark had seemed oddly pointed at the time, but we understood her meaning now, all too well. We rummaged through our packs and found a copy of the school contact list. Tired and hungry and unsure of ourselves, we put in a call to Maggie.

“Och, sure! You're just doon the road! Come, then, the lot of ye! I've got supper on the stove.” One slight wrong turn and twenty minutes later, we were on her doorstep. She ushered us in with exclamations of welcome and genuine delight, took our jackets, offered us tea, and showed us to the kitchen, where dinner was indeed on the stove: four enormous dishes, heaped with food, cooked the day before, the pilot light's heat just barely enough to give them a hint of warmth. She had made this enormous feast the day before, so as not to trouble herself with the work of cooking on the Sabbath. There were bashed neeps with butter and curried rice salad with apricots. There was a platter of cold sliced meat and a tray with bread and cheese. It looked like enough to feed a village—certainly more than Maggie's small household, more than enough for them and four hungry musicians.

Maggie's hospitality startled us, dazzled us, and moved us deeply. She had known us only a week, and then mostly in passing. Yet here was this feast, and afterwards the demand that we put up our feet by the peat fire, rest a while, and share some tea. Her unqualified, whole-hearted welcome fluttered around us like a flock of quail landing in the wilderness, like manna in the desert. Here was pot-luck beyond our wild imaginings, canceling out all our fears of scarcity.

Islanders or desert wanderers, we all move with the burdens of hunger and fear. For the Israelites, it was the fear that their resources would not be sufficient to nourish their whole community. On Lewis, we faced a similar, though far less drastic, fear.

The island where I grew up has its own community struggles. Our island, unlike yours, has no bedrock. It is merely a pile of silt and gravel, the remnant of a glacier that got tired. To the executives and engineers of a mining company, all that pre-crushed rock made our island the perfect source of raw materials for all manner of lucrative clients, near and far away. They threatened to take a portion of the island—including protected shoreline and sensitive woodlands--by Eminent Domain in the name of Public Works.

We raged. We whispered. We made phone calls and wrote letters. We gossiped, prayed, and picketed. We raised such a stink that the county commissioners, engineers, and other highly-placed personages made their way from the mainland to the island. The cause became a celebrated one.

I wish I could tell you that we won, flat out. But real life rarely wraps things up so neatly. Nobody got exactly what they wanted. In the process, though, something has changed on the island. We've learned to be clear with each other. We've learned to work together—farmers, lawyers, schoolkids and grandparents, mechanics and politicians—to understand what matters most to us, what makes the island such a vital, precious and important place.

It remains to be seen whether all those tons of gravel will be pulled from that particular lump of earth. In the meantime, we have sowed seeds of good stewardship, and we have begun to reap a harvest of wisdom. As Paul said in his letter to the Ephesians,
“We must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people's trickery, by their craftiness in deceitful scheming. But speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way... into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and knit together by every ligament with which it is equipped, as each part is working properly, promotes the body's growth in building itself up in love.”

Speak the truth in love-- how hard that is, when anxiety and frustration—and even righteous indignation—crowd out compassion from our hearts. And how hard it is to grow together, to find some all-too-uncommon Common Ground. On Lewis, that place of ancient stones, they wrestle with the decision to run ferryboats on Sundays, raising the fear that this will cheapen and weaken this tiny stronghold of Sabbath Rest. Here on Muscongus Island, you have your own struggles with resources, your own hard quests for Common Ground. But you also have sources of wisdom, strength and nourishment. You have auctions, workdays, and wonderful potluck feasts!

On the old agricultural calendar, today marks the beginning of Lammas or Lunasdal: the harvest season. On the Isle of Lewis, as on the Scottish mainland, it was a time to honor those who laboured in the fields. Bread and beer-- gifts of grain and the fruit of the earth—were shared in abundance. It was a kind of communion. There were toasts to praise workers and landowners both, ways to honour the well-rooted and the drifters. Although most of us no longer till the fields with our own muscles and sweat, the memory of these things is powerful—so powerful that the Common Lectionary, the shared cycle of bible readings heard in churches around the world, offers on this particular Sunday a plate full of manna, fresh harvests, heavenly bread.

Here, on this small island, on this particular lump of stone and earth, our fieldwork awaits. Let us ask ourselves and our neighbors: what shall be our harvest? What nourishment will we share with others, to keep the Spirit's gifts moving among us? What manna will we gather, together, in this place?
Amen.


Manna, indeed: for the rest of our stay, we were invited to share meals and hailed cheerfully on the footpaths. We shared more stories and savoured the hospitality of many...and used more than one of the island outhouses, each decorated thoughtfully and distinctly. Farmdog, Piper and I roamed the island's beaches with our friends. I swam in the cool saltwater. We read books from the island library by solar flashlights after dark. It was a time of renewal, a time of nourishment for body and mind and soul. We've even been asked back for another Summer Sunday, next year!

Flushed With Gratitude

WE HAVE PLUMBING!!!

Lent's not done yet, so I'm rather conflicted about this announcement. However,as one of my OFJ (Off-Farm Job) co-workers pointed out, we gave up plumbing long before Lent began. Calculating the time since we moved into the unplumbed new house and the pipes froze in the old one, we seem to have fulfilled the requisite forty days of de-privy-ation.

Our first functional fixture was, thankfully, the privy. A genuine porcelain throne, (purchased "gently used" for $50), now graces our little loo. We are, you might say, "sitting" pretty. We couldn't have done this without our Princely Plumber, (pictured above), and we are truly flushed with gratitude. I felt like crying with joy, a feeling about which I'm unapologetic. Hey, it's my potty, and I'll cry if I want to!


Next in was the shower, and we confirmed that cleanliness is next to Godliness when water streamed down from the Holy Spigot on high. (Of course, our shower wouldn't have had a prayer, had we not received a free second-hand hot water tank late last year. It came from our Infamous EX-Plumber, about whom we're still in a lather... If we ever track him down, it'll be curtains, for sure.)

But enough stalling. Next we went on a reconnaissance mission and marched the washing machine over from the old house. We hooked it up in our tiny utility room, then, with a triumphant roll of the drum, we loaded up and soldiered through lights and darks, then hung our colours proudly.

After a bit of R & R, we went off and explored the counter culture. The Piper's Son worked with us to cut and install our donated kitchen countertops. (A friend of a friend was redoing her kitchen and begged us to cart them off.) They came with a used stainless steel sink. It took a couple of days for us to get caulky enough, but eventually we achieved that old sinking feeling. After that, we happily washed our hands of the matter.

Some places boast of bells and whistles, claiming to offer "everything but the kitchen sink." For us, it's the bathroom sink that's left out of the picture. (According to The Piper's Son, there's something complicated about the wall-mounting process that he plans to tackle at a later date.) We do, however, have all the requisite water lines installed and operational nozzles and hoses in place, carefully positioned above one of those ubiquitous farm accoutrements, a five-gallon bucket. We don't mind this rustic handwashing station, after all we've been through. It'll work just fine, as long as nobody kicks the bucket!


Our deepest thanks go out to Katie for the counter/sink, Habitat for Humanity's local "ReStore" for cheap bathroom fixtures, #@%$&! for the hot water heater, Alan and Justin for septic system excavation, Bruce & Kevin for tools and advice, Dan for his incredibly generous gift of professional skills and labour, and especially The Piper's Son for his long hours of construction and contractor support.

(I apologize for all the bathroom humour, but we just feel so plumb lucky!)

Falling Stars, Singing Pipes

It is daybreak, and the stars are falling.

At least, that's how it looks this morning, as heavy wet snow-stars plummet, filling the span between cottage and woods with their silent, stunning artillery. Sleet is predicted for much of the day, a staunch declaration that Spring is seeping out from under Winter's hard and icy grip.

It has been the sort of winter when one questions Spring's return. We have known the time Gaels call Am Faoilteach, "the Wolf Month," when hunger and fear leave their sharp indentations on even the most well-armoured souls.



"What though the tempest round me roars, I know the Truth, it liveth;
What though the darkness round me falls, songs in the night it giveth."

Songs in the night have been few and far between, though I've tried and tried to be brave. I love this old song, (circa 1864, attrib. to Anne Warner), and--usually--I love Winter. But I confess I've done precious little singing. The best I could manage, most days, was a snatch or two of wordless whistling, usually slip jigs with their defiant, springy rhythms. I believe in the power of words, of naming things into being, but my faith became so hesitant and timid that my dearest hopes were no longer among the things I could name.

And then the plumber called.

What? A plumber? One of those people who play with pipes, who put the pipes together, add water, and make them sing? A real honest-to-goodness PLUMBER?!?

Aye, a plumber called. It seems The Bagpiper's Son, a wandering woodsman, had met a plumber's son on his travels--verily, the Son of a Living Plumber. The plumber's son heard our tale of woe and said, "Fear not, for the Plumber is with you, and he shall mend your plumbing and make it whole."

Blessed are they who believe what they have not seen...well, we had indeed begun to suspect that plumbers were mythical creatures, mere will-o'-wisps at the edge of our imaginings. Our regular calls to our previous plumber had become like desperate prayers to a distant and silent saviour, if you'll forgive this slight blasphemy. We pleaded, we bargained, we ranted and raved... in short, we made absolute fools of ourselves on that man's answering machine, to no avail.

But yesterday, the weather began to warm. Our hearts dared to lift. There were portants in the heavens. The moon was waxing gibbous. Long had we waited in unwashed darkness... And Lo, unto us a plumber was given. And the tools were in his bag and the mantle of his credentials was on his shoulders: He is a plumber and retired professional engineer who regularly works with Habitat for Humanity. He has plumbed many houses. Within a few hours he had measurements taken, floor plans and schematics drawn, and a parts list written. Oh, Hallelujah Chorus!

Now, like any long-unused system, our faith has gone rusty and stiff. It is hard work to shake things loose and exercise our belief, allow ourselves to trust again. The Bagpiper has not done much piping, and I have not done much singing, but now The Plumber Has Come and perhaps we shall dig down and reconnect to the sweet well of music again. It is hard to believe, but The Plumber says work can begin next week. It is hard to believe, but this project is being enscribed, copied in triplicate, and named into being.

"My life flows on in endless song above earth's lamentation...
I hear the real, tho' far-off hymn that hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear that music ringing--
It sounds an echo in my soul; how can I keep from singing?"