A Song in the Night, based on Psalm 42-43

 

A Hidden Treasure

I was first drawn to this psalm when my daughter had to memorize Psalm 42:8 in kindergarten. I had never paid any attention to the text before, but loved its lilt.

 

Yet the LORD will command his lovingkindness in the daytime,

and in the night his song shall be with me,

and my prayer unto the God of my life.

                 

Lovingkindness—the KJV translation for the Hebrew chesed—had always intrigued me since a grad school teacher explained it in OT Theology. I wanted to find out more about the whole psalm.

 

 

What I found intrigued me more. Pss 42 and 43 were probably one psalm originally. They have a very definite stanzaic structure. The symmetry—4 verses, refrain—is thrown off in the middle stanza by an extra verse. This central verse, conspicuously placed in the middle of this middle stanza, is the verse that caught my attention, 42:8.

 

The theme of the psalm wraps around this central verse. The poet pants and thirsts for God. His enemies plague him and mock his faith. He longs for the better days now gone, when he led God’s people in worship. His soul is cast down to the depths of the sea. He feels as if God, too, has forgotten him. Yet in each refrain, he resolves to put his hope in God. The final stanza reflects that resolve more directly than the other two, which may be why this stanza is listed as a separate psalm. Here he longs for the day when he again will rejoice in praise to his God.

 

But with one notable exception, the psalm focuses on the poet’s own perspective—his despair, his resolve. The only affirmative statement of God’s goodness in the whole psalm is 42:8—set prominently in the middle of the whole poem. Here lies the true theme of the psalm, in this single, lyrical assertion of Yaweh’s loving loyalty. The structure or form of the psalm creates an appetite for this central verse.

Finding Form

My interest in the form of this psalm comes from discussions I’ve had with friends who see the form of scripture as an essential part of the message.[1] “Instead of thinking of sermon form and content as separate realities, it is far more accurate to speak of the form of the content.”^[2] This form-content fusion becomes even more important we realize that Hebrew poets made no distinction between form and content. Jacques Ellul brings up the issue in his commentary on Ecclesiastes. Speaking of the power of Qoheleth’s poetry, Ellul observes:

The truly creative poet forges his language at the same time as his message. There can be no separation between form and content. The poet does not have an idea to communicate, which he then puts into verse. By no means! We are faced here with something welling up from a deep spring; there is no distinction between the properties of the water and the underground path it has carved out to reach the daylight of expression.

The poet, then, is not a person who thinks and has a nice style. His thought cannot be expressed in any other way. He thinks as the words themselves come and evoke his thought.^[3]

The Hebrew poets practiced what Kenneth Burke much later described.^[4] The form acts on the hearer. Form, like eloquence, “is no mere plaster added to a framework of more stable qualities. Eloquence is simply the end of art, and is thus its essence.”^[5] Burke defines form as “the creation of an appetite in the mind of the auditor, and the adequate satisfying of that appetite.”^[6] He goes on to explain:

This satisfaction—so complicated is the human mechanism—at times involves a temporary set of frustrations, but in the end these frustrations prove to be simply a more involved kind of satisfaction, and furthermore serve to make the satisfaction of fulfillment more intense. If, in a work of art, the poet says something, let us say, about a meeting, writes in such a way that we desire to observe that meeting, and then, if he places that meeting before us—that is form. While obviously, that is also the psychology of the audience, since it involves desires and their appeasements.^[7]

As examples of this creation and satisfaction of an appetite Burke cites the anticipation leading to the appearance of Hamlet’s father’s ghost,^[8] as well the movement of a dissonant musical chord to its final resolution.^[9]

 

A Scriptural text is not merely a parcel of truths wrapped up in a pretty package of form, but is truth itself in every dimension, both form and content. To exegete a text, therefore, means considering both form and content. And to communicate the text means to communicate the message of the entire text, not merely the content, but also the form. In some way, an exposition should convey the form of the text. To neglect this is simply to preach a partial sermon and warp the meaning of the text.

 

My goal, then, in trying to expose the meaning of Pss 42-43, was to communicate not only the content, but also the form of the text.

Stopping at the Start

Before I talk about how I chose to unpack—or repack—this psalm in a poem of my own, let me make a couple of observations about how we western Christians so easily miss the point of this text. First, this psalm has been the inspiration for other Christian poems, but these poems often fail to find the heart of the text. Typically, western poets stop with the image in the first verse:

 

As the hart panteth after the water brooks,

so panteth my soul after thee, O God.

 

Putting the first image first makes sense according to western patterns of logic—put the important idea first or last. But as we’ve already seen, the most important idea in this poem is tucked in the middle—the weakest point in a western pattern. Any exposition that assumes a western form and looks to the first verse for the theme misses the point of this poem.

 

In addition, most western poets emphasize a literal, photographic sense of this opening image of a panting deer. The noun takes precedence over the verb leading us to see a deer in the forest. However, as Thorlief Boman points out, there is no photographic description of physical form in the OT.[10] Our western preoccupation with physical form wreaks havoc with many Hebrew texts. For example, consider the image in Song of Solomon 4:4, “Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men.” Taking this as a photographic image of physical form brings to our minds a woman who would hardly be the object of desire.

 

For the Hebrews, however, such images refer not to physical form, but rather to function or action. A neck is like a tower if it functions or acts like a tower—strong, unyielding, unconquered. The key to the image in 42:1, therefore, is not so much the deer panting as it is the deer panting. That yearning, and its ultimate satisfaction in 42:8, is the center of this psalm and should form the center of any exposition.

 

Some interpreters, wisely, do not stop at the first verse, but continue to the refrain, which does have a prominent place in a western scheme both because it is last and because it is repeated. The repetition is significant in a Hebrew scheme also, but it still does not complete the poem’s meaning. The refrain expresses the poet’s resolve to believe God; he counsels himself to trust his God. But without 42:8, this resolve never succeeds. Yes, we should believe, but the proof our belief (the pistis of our pistis, if you will, to take the dual meaning of faith as Kinneavy outlines[11]), still rests in the oft-ignored central verse. We can trust the God who gives a song in the night. Without this verse, the refrain is morose, unrequited agon.

 

Not only is the structure troublesome for western interpreters, but the content is seldom understood by western believers. Even though many of the psalms share the despair we find here, most interpreters shy away from these expressions. “My tears have been my meat day and night.” “I will say unto God my rock, Why hast thou forgotten me?” It seems to us somehow unseemly for a spiritual believer to express such thoughts. We prefer the praise psalms and Messianic psalms, topics more palatable to our cultural tastes. And, in fact, this psalm would be too dismal for any taste without the central verse and its declaration of God’s faithfulness even during our despair.

Turning the Text Inside-Out

So how can we expose the form of this text so western believers feel its power? I can only offer my own solution, which is not the only or best alternative. It simply serves as an example for how the form of such a text may be communicated to an audience for whom the original form is foreign.

 

I began with the obvious. If the central verse of the psalm is in the weakest position in a western structure, I should move it to the prominent spot in our logic—the beginning and end. In effect, I turned the psalm inside-out. I also grew into a three stanza structure that roughly mimics the mild progression from despair to resolve from the first to last stanza of the original psalm, although a three-stanza form is fairly common and would have made sense for other reasons, too. In my first stanza, the poet addresses himself; in the second, those who mock him; in the third, his God. This progression roughly accounts for the central images of the original. I dropped the refrain altogether. It simply wasn’t necessary once the theme came out of the center.

 

Crafting the tune became more difficult than determining the general outlines of the structure. I settled on a pentatonic tune of 8.7.8.7 doubled. This choice is significant for several reasons. This meter is familiar and can be easily sung by a congregation—one rule I eventually developed. The pentatonic scale gives a folk song feel. It sounds neither foreign nor formal. It is accessible to the common audience.

 

This choice of tune reflects my being unsettled with both the sides of the CCM debate. I agree with the CCM proponents that music should be accessible and relevant, and I fault the traditionalists when they try to pawn off nineteenth century period pieces as having some sort of relevance to a twenty-first century audience. However, the traditionalists are correct when they criticize CCM for relying too strongly on popular idioms to carry a sacred message. A godly artist must choose those elements from his culture that best convey the divine message. Most popular idioms are too shallow to sustain the depth and subtlety of the sacred message. For example, it’s hard to imagine a Christian comic book ever becoming a classic because of its powerful and heart-stirring message over the ages. I believe, in short, that many CCM artists pander to their audience by appealing to a pop culture impulse when they have many other more fitting choices available.

 

I believe the folk idiom can sustain the force of the sacred message. It is free from the predominantly shallow associations of popular culture and yet can be immediately understood by a broad cross-section of the culture. Furthermore, it is particular fitting for the kind of intense personal emotions in many of the Hebrew psalms. Anthems can convey God’s transcendence and power, but folk music can convey how God cares for me. I believe, for example, that the Negro Spiritual may be the contemporary form closest to the tone of many Hebrew psalms. Deliberately, then, I set out to craft a song that bears some characteristics of a spiritual.

 

I crafted the text to fit closely with the tune. Some songs—some gospel songs, especially—put unimportant words on important parts of the tune. I tried to avoid this, matching big ideas with big parts of the tune.

 

I also tried to be true to the text. I did not set out to do a metrical setting of the psalm text itself. As I have already argued, that would not adequately translate the form to a western audience. Instead, I borrowed its images and words and stayed true to its theme. I also kept the words simple—mostly one or two syllables with no Latinized words. I cut out “thee,” “thou” and “thy” even though I had them in an early draft. I also chose words that would sing well—vowels that resonate well and consonants that don’t stop the sound too soon.

 

The guitar accompaniment seemed fitting for the folk idiom and worked well overall. Even without it, I would favor a minimalist approach to the arrangement instead of the overblown productions that often accompany Christian music. We should teach people to listen for the still, small voice.

 

The product is my interpretation of Ps 42-43. You can hear the result for yourself. Behind this work lies not only my understanding of form that I learned from Burke and my friends, but also the conviction that much of our preaching rests on assumptions that are foreign to the lost world. If our gospel be hid, it is hid because we rely on unstated premises that a general audience does not understand, making it impossible for them to receive the force of our arguments. Form can serve as another premise in our arguments, in a sense. This project is an attempt to find a form and message that would carry meaning to a broader audience without compromising the dignity, power and depth of the message.

Rules I Set for Myself

Out of this project, I came up with a set of rules for my own attempts at biblical songs. I’ve alluded to them earlier. Let me see if I can list them now:

1. The text should be grounded in a specific biblical text and should consistently involve not only the theme of the text, but also its images, vocabulary and, if possible, its form.
2. At the same time, the text should be for the people. The vocabulary should be simple—no more than one or two syllables. No “thee” and “thou.” No Latinized terms. The images should be concrete and consistent—no mixed metaphors.
3. The music also should be for the people. A congregation should be able to sing it. The mood should support the message. The words must fit the music closely. Both the tune and the text must lend themselves to singing.
4. The music should support the specific and general intent of the text. According to the mood of the text, the arrangement should be most often minimalist; any ornamentations should be sparse, even if the biblical text conveys a sense of majesty and power.

 

The result, I hope, would speak not only to those who are already part of the Christian culture that supplies the premises for our own self-persuasion, but also to those prodigals who seek their way home.

 

I should quickly add that this approach to Christian music is nothing new. The most enduring and beloved hymns have always followed these principles. Isaac Watts hymns and metrical psalms, for example, “had a freedom and spiritual fervency unknown before. This gives place to a more spontaneous and emotional expression of the general thought of the Psalms. The tunes to which these new hymns were to be sung were emotional, spontaneous, and popular.”^[12]

 

In one sense, Watts poems are as fresh today as they were when he first wrote them. Our use of them, however, has grown stale. Conservatives accept them glibly, forgetting the essential connection they provide between the Scriptures and the heart. We satisfy ourselves with their thoughtless repetition, instead of learning from them how to make the Scriptures alive for our people. They remind us of the golden age of American Evangelicalism, when we were on top of the cultural heap. If we keep singing the songs we did then, we suppose, we will again earn the respect of our culture. On the other hand, those interested in contemporary sounds may give a nod to the popular appeal of these hymn classics, but then rush on to banal idioms that, by their very popularity, cheapen the most potent truths of Scripture.

 

The great need for Christian hymns and songs today, I believe, is not simply to be relevant nor to repeat a cultural tradition that reminds us of better days now past. Hymns for today, like preaching, must stand in the gap between the Scripture and the people. They must bring them a Scriptural message in all its scope and force to a people who so desperately need that message. Of course our hymn choices should include classics like Watts and Newton. But the greatest lesson we can learn from them is that we, too, should carry on their work of bringing the Scripture to the people with power and hope.

 

The rules I developed for my songs

	In relation to the Scripture	In relation to the People
The Text Should Be:	·       Grounded in a specific biblical text ·       Use the Scripture’s: ·       theme ·       images ·       vocabulary ·       form	·       Simple vocabulary ·       No more than one or two syllables ·       No “thee” and “thou.” ·       No Latinized terms ·       Concrete and consistent images ·       No mixed metaphors
The Music Should Be:	·       Usually minimalist arrangement, in keeping with  mood of the text ·       Restrained ornamentation, even if the biblical text conveys majesty and power	·       Easy for a congregation to sing ·       A mood that supports the message ·       Words that fit the music closely ·       Music and text that lend themselves to singing

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Light is Sweet, based on Ecclesiastes 11:7

 

After completing “A Song in the Night,” I wanted to apply my rules to another of my favorite texts, Ecclesiastes 11:7

 

Truly the light is sweet,

and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun.

 

With this text, I found I would not be unpacking the form of an entire psalm or paragraph. Instead, I would have to carry the subtle and often misunderstood themes of Ecclesiastes that stand behind this verse.

Misunderstanding Ecclesiastes

I could spend pages explaining the ways Ecclesiastes, or Qoheleth in the Hebrew, has been misunderstood. Along with Esther and Song of Solomon, it was almost not included in the Hebrew canon. Critical scholars assume it must have been written much later than Solomon’s reign because it bears what they incorrectly take to be a strong resemblance to later Greek philosophy. Many a preacher has killed the book by carving it up into a Romans-like outline instead of accepting its intricate and non-linear structure (which Ellul explains most clearly[13]).

 

The worst offense, however, committed against these words, even by respected scholars, is the conclusion that Ecclesiastes represents human reasoning apart from God.[14] Things are only vain, these scholars conclude, without God. With God, suddenly things must make sense.

 

This conclusion guts the text and denies its power. Qoheleth teaches that all things are vanity even for the believer, but since they are also a gift from God, they become a means to please God and enjoy His benefits. This is the riddle of a godly life. Other ancient cultures expressed the same sense of vanity, but Qoheleth’s conclusion is far different from theirs: understand the limits of your life, but enjoy what you’ve been given as God’s gift. This conclusion is not hedonism, since Qoheleth teaches that we should temper our actions in light of God’s judgment. Nor is this approach the same as “eat, drink and be merry,” since Qoheleth begins with a sobering awareness of vanity. That awareness is critical to Qoheleth’s picture of wisdom and human action; as Ellul says, “All wisdom boils down to recognizing vanity.”[15] Neither are Qoheleth’s words equivalent to the Taoist’s reluctance to act, for Qoheleth advises bold, joyful and godly action even in the face of vanity. Wisdom, for Qoheleth, is not having the answers. It is having faith in the One who does. Wisdom equals work without worry. Do the best you can where you can and let God take care of the rest.

A Light in the Cave

To fit this radical sense of wise action into a song is daunting. Even the theme verse—“The light is sweet”—holds a simplicity that belies its profound truth. The typical development of a nature theme like this in Christian hymnody is to emphasize God’s power in the heavens. But the sense of 11:7 is more than a declaration of God’s transcendent power; it is rather a personal statement of the sweetness of God’s natural gifts. To use a belletristic distinction, this not a sublime image, but a beautiful image—delicate and personal.

 

This typical hymnic exposition of the power of God and creation misses the sense of this text not only because it is not personal, but also because it places God’s work apart from the human, material realm. In short, our tacit Gnosticism often bleeds through in our hymns and expositions. We agree that all is vanity, but qualify it by saying that all things human, material and unspiritual are vanity. The spiritual, the divine, the immaterial cannot be vain, we assume.

 

Lying not so far beneath the surface of these conclusions is Plato’s cave. Our human reality is inside the cave, where we see only shadows. Truth lives at the mouth of the cave, in another realm. To become godly, we must somehow escape this earthly sphere. Socrates gives this advice to Theodorus in Plato’s Theatetus, (176a-176e), showing that it may have been Plato who actually wrote the lyrics to “I’ll Fly Away”:

 

Evils, Theodorus, can never pass away; for there must always remain something which is antagonistic to good. Having no place among the gods in heaven, of necessity they hover around the mortal nature, and this earthly sphere. Wherefore we ought to fly away from earth to heaven as quickly as we can; and to fly away is to become like God, as far as this is possible; and to become like him, is to become holy, just, and wise. But, O my friend, you cannot easily convince humans that they should pursue virtue or avoid vice, not merely in order that a person may seem to be good, which is the reason given by the world, and in my judgment is only a repetition of an old wive’s fable.

 

Christian theologians have long recognized what they wrongly assume to be a harmony between Plato’s ontology and their own teachings. In fact, many Christian scholars assume that Plato’s picture of reality is simply a restatement of divine truth. Take, for example, the choices the translator made in the following excerpt from the Phaedo:

 

Now there is a danger in the contemplation of the nature of things, as there is a danger in looking at the sun during an eclipse, unless the precaution is taken of looking only at the image reflected in the water, or in a glass.  ‘I was afraid,’ says Socrates, ‘that I might injure the eye of the soul.  I thought that I had better return to the old and safe method of ideas.  Though I do not mean to say that he who contemplates existence through the medium of ideas sees only ‘through a glass darkly,’ any more than he who contemplates actual effects.’ [emphasis added]

 

Notice the phrase “through a glass darkly,” exactly the phrase that Paul uses in I Cor. 13:12. The original Greek text does not have this phrase here. The translator decided to add it because he saw what he thought to be the same idea; he simply borrowed from Paul to explain Plato.

 

Reading this Platonic, anti-materialist bias into biblical texts not only distorts our interpretation of difficult texts like Romans 7, giving Paul a Gnostic bent he actually set out to refute, but it also blurs the truth of Christ’s incarnation, leading us to view Him as something other than human. In fact, if we equate literal flesh with sin, our entire concept of humanity is thrown out of biblical balance.

 

And to understand Qoheleth’s words, we must understand humanity—specifically, God’s work in the human sphere. One reason Ecclesiastes is so misunderstood is that it sees a divine purpose in finite, human action. Instead of teaching us how to escape the vain bonds of flesh and live outside the cave, it tells how to find joyful, God-fearing action within the cave. Christ came in the flesh, so we should enjoy Him in the flesh. With the incarnation, the vanity of this human life becomes the medium in which He has chosen to paint His grace. We live in the cave. We rejoice in the cave. We serve God in the cave. We make wise choices in the cave.

 

When Qoheleth concludes, therefore, “the light is sweet,” he is declaring the God-given joy we receive from all the vanities of the cave. We are to use them for our pleasure, but, more than that, we are to see them as the means by which we can serve our God.

A Simple Song

To capture this rather delicate interpretation in a song is, as I have already said, daunting. I began with a simple restatement of the biblical text: “The light is sweet and fair the sun.” I ended up using the light images throughout the song text, borrowing Qoheleth’s vocabulary where I could.

 

The tune again presented a few challenges. I decided on another pentatonic melody, this time 8.6.8.6.6.6.8.6. As I shaped it, it came close to New Britain, the standard tune for “Amazing Grace,” also 8.6.8.6. I believe that the final product is different enough not to look like a copy. I worked closely with this tune to match the text to the music. I tried to put bright vowels on bright parts of the line. Also, as the melody ascends, the text’s images also ascend. As the line descends, so does the idea in the text. For example:

 

            “Their glories swell the dawn” ascends.

            “But when their beams to darkness run” descends.

 

The same holds true for each stanza.

 

The first stanza introduces the theme. It quickly adds the reality of coming darkness, taken from Ecclesiastes 11:8. To resolve the darkness, I introduced a Christological reference not part of Qoheleth’s theology—not part of wisdom theology overall, for that matter. I feel the reference is nevertheless appropriate here since it is an image common to our theology (“I am the light of the world,” John 8:12; 9:5) and it is consistent with the underlying theme of God’s sovereignty in the wisdom literature, including Qoheleth. More important for the song text, however, is that this rather straightforward statement of Christ’s enduring light sets up the later verses.

 

The second stanza refutes the theology of Plato’s cave that creeps into our doctrine. It begins with a statement of the glory of God’s handiwork in the skies. This statement taken alone matches the sentiment of many hymns, several from the 18^th century that proclaim God’s power in creation (e.g. Watts, “I sing the almighty power of God.”[16]).

 

This second stanza turns differently than these other hymns, however, in the third, descending line. “But wonders more down here I see/Where tears with beauty shine.” This is the work of God within the cave—the power of the still, small voice and the widow’s mite. I drew from Ecclesiastes 3 for this image: “He hath made every thing beautiful in his time” (3:11). Even tears, which here stand for all human frailties, can be beautiful in God’s time.

 

The image resolves in the second part of this stanza with another Christ reference. God in the cave—in the flesh—shed tears like mine. “For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities” (Hebrews 4:15). The Christ who shines like the sun in the first stanza also shares my sorrows in the cave. What’s more, those sorrows become emblems of grace because God shared them. He is not only the God of the sun, moon and stars; He is the God of my tears.

 

The final stanza returns to the sweet light of the first—light that now shines from each of God’s works and even from my sorrows. Using Qoheleth’s vocabulary, this stanza introduces another key theme in Ecclesiastes: work. Qoheleth repeats his conclusion several times in Ecclesiastes (2:24, also 3:13; 5:18; 8:15; 9:9):

 

There is nothing better for a man,

than that he should eat and drink,

and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labour.

This also I saw, that it was from the hand of God.

 

The song text explains that finite men and women may not understand the reason for the gift of work, the sweetness of the light, or the beauty of tears. Even so, we should give all our labors back to God as our frail gift to Him. In the final Christ reference, the song text declares that we return His gifts to Him to shine His light here in the cave “till morning cures the night”—the single eschatological reference in this song text.

 

The song text comes full circle, from creation’s light, to Christ’s light, to the light of tears and finally to the light we shine as we reflect His light in our labor. “We are the light of the world” (Mt 5:14).

 

I labored in this song to follow my own rules. The text is grounded in a specific biblical text and makes use of its images, vocabulary and themes. It does introduce themes that are not part of the biblical text, but it does so to interpret it in light of New Testament theology. The text is simple, with concrete images and simple words. The tune, too, is simple. It lends itself to singing by a congregation. It makes use of the folk idiom that should appeal to both traditional and contemporary tastes. The song supports the tone of the biblical text, with a simple yet elegant setting. The flute accompaniment, while primarily written to give my daughter an opportunity to accompany me, supports the minimalist approach as does Mark Parker’s sensitive, careful style.