In the garden where I love to go
I
see the hollyhocks all planted in a row,
Peach
and apple blossom, hyacinth and golden bell,
The
Lily of the Valley, the greater celandine and daffodil.
Nothing
can compare with God’s great beauty rare
In
this wild profusion of His glory, a sight beyond compare.
Come
walk with me a little, while the gentle breezes blow
And
share with me the beauty of His garden here below.
-
Alfred Montrose, Spring, 2013
“Mother,” I said, “nothing quite affects me like the
beauty of the springtime flowers, and it seems to there is special beauty this
year in the early blossoming of the trees, the redbud and magnolia and the
lilac.
“I
know what you mean, said Mother, “which is precisely why I chose our Royal
Albert 1920 Spring Meadow Mugs for our tea this afternoon. Why on each mug is a wild profusion of
primroses, roses, violets, harebells and forget-me-nots.”
I
held my mug aloft in appreciation, and gazed at it, “I do love the subtle cream
colored background and the 9-karat gold trim, although I must say, that as
carefully crafted as these are they can’t compare with God’s beauty rare.’
“Oh,
Alfred,” said Mother, “you are so poetic!”
I
looked at Mother wondering whether or not there was not just a subtle note of
sarcasm in her voice. Of late she seemed
to be a little annoyed with my pursuit of the tenor solo parts in the Easter
Messiah program. It may not be just my
rehearsing; after all I do keep my study door closed. Mother seems to have been bothered over my
background research in Holy Scripture.
Yesterday,
she actually said, “Really, Alfred.
Really! The Bible, Alfred! Why
don’t you stick to the Wall Street Journal?!”
“I
retorted, “Some familiarity with Holy Scripture is the mark of educated and
cultured men. It is as valid as reading
Shakespeare.” Mother wasn’t impressed.
“Now,
between you and I, leaving Mother out it for the moment, (a dangerous but
necessary thing to do), leaving Mother out of it, as I said, there are some
very disturbing things in the text. Why
at the heart of Handel’s Messiah is that passage from Isaiah,
Surely he hath borne our griefs,
and
carried our sorrows:
yet we did esteem him stricken,
smitten
of God, and afflicted.
But he was wounded for our
transgressions,
he
was bruised for our iniquities:
the chastisement of our peace was upon
him;
and
with his stripes we are healed.[i]
Why that passage is
unexcelled from a literary perspective, but from a personal perspective it is
thoroughly alarming. Nevertheless I have
this deep conviction that in order to sing my tenor solo parts I really ought
to find a way to interiorize the text.
That my friend is a dangerous thing to do; perhaps even more dangerous
than leaving Mother out of the equation.
While
I was ruminating on these things, Mother, as was to be expected, changed the
subject saying, “Do you know Alfred that our son Jeremy and his Winifred are
coming for Easter?”
“Wonderful,
Mother,” I said, “That will be quite exciting.”
But privately I said to myself, “From our conversation at Christmas I
know they will have some appreciation for what I'm struggling with.” As much as I love Mother, I have a feeling
that this is something that I have to work out for myself.
The Collect “For Joy in God's
Creation:
O heavenly Father, who hast filled the world with beauty: Open
our eyes to behold thy gracious hand in all thy works; that, rejoicing in thy
whole creation, we may learn to serve thee with gladness; for the sake of him through
whom all things were made, thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
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