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Hark, a Thrilling Voice is Sounding
Manage episode 454832030 series 3540370
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“I heard your voice in the garden,” said Adam, after he had sinned, “and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.” The Hebrew for our Word of the Week, voice, is qol, the same word we find when Elijah was in the cave, and the Lord said he would appear to him. Then came a whirlwind, whipping over the mountains and crushing rocks to pieces, but the Lord was not in the whirlwind, nor in the earthquake that followed, nor in the fire. But after the fire came “a still small voice,” which the Douay translators render in an interesting way, as “the whistling of a gentle air.” And the Lord was in that still small voice, and Elijah in awe covered his face with his mantle.
“If God would speak to us, we would obey,” say men, when they are molding balls of wax to plug into their ears. I’m going a little hard of hearing, but then, aren’t we all? We are beset with stunning sounds and voices all confused. The last time I was at a major league ballgame, watching my Cardinals lose to the Cubs 5-4 at Wrigley Field, I couldn’t have a conversation with my friend and host and Touchstone Magazine editor, Jim Kushiner, though he was sitting next to me. The noise over the loudspeakers was relentless and deafening. Baseball used to be the pastoral sport, for lazy summer afternoons, a sport with time between pitches, time to talk. I’ve long wondered if we stun ourselves with sound because we don’t want to hear a voice in the silence.
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So something must rouse us from our stupor. We may think of it as a trumpet call, breaking through the walls of the world, or as that same still small voice, entering silently, how silently, into the world before it is aware of it and can make sure that it is not heard. Either way, I think it inspired the unknown Latin author of our Hymn of the Week, Vox clara ecce intonat, translated by Edward Caswall as “Hark, a Herald Voice is Calling,” afterwards revised slightly, “Hark, a Thrilling Voice is Calling.” We shouldn’t think that “thrilling” here is meant to describe emotions merely. What thrills, literally, pierces, from Old English thyrlian, to perforate, to pierce. It should be thirl, by the way, and it once was, but the r switched places with the vowel, as it did also in the word third (which was thrid) and bird (which was brid). Shakespeare’s Claudio, in Measure for Measure, is suddenly gripped with terror at the prospect of being executed, and imagines, in his frenzy, what it would be like to dwell “in thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice.” Those are not the thrills you are supposed to get at an amusement park!
The thrilling voice of John the Baptist, in the hymn, pierces to the heart. We’re to wake up, to loose ourselves from the sluggish bonds of earth, to shake our sloth away, and to rise up in the dawning light. Christ comes “with pardon down from heaven,” and so we should make haste, moved, shaken, eager to be forgiven. For Christ will come again, in judgment, when he will strike fear into the world, not because he wishes it ill, but simply because of who he is, God and judge of all. Then, if we have heard that voice and sought to be forgiven, he will, as the Latin lines have it, have mercy upon us and protect us — literally, he will set a roof or a shield above our heads.
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But what about the smallness I’ve mentioned, and the silence? Consider how quiet was the first piercing by Christ of the flesh of the world, when “wrapped in night’s mantle,” as the poet Herbert puts it, he “stole into a manger.” Think of the light of the star that the eastern star-gazers followed — whether a planetary conjunction, a comet, or a nova, we do not know, but the Persians were inveterate watchers of the sky, and from the days of Cyrus long ago they had learned of the Jewish prophecies regarding a Messiah. That light did not make noise. The courtiers of Herod did not notice it. The chief priests and the scribes did not pay it any mind. If anything stirred in their hearts, we are not told. But we have heard of it — and so we should listen. For a single whisper of God means more than all the sound and fury of the world.
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Hark! a thrilling voice is sounding; "Christ is nigh," it seems to say; "Cast away the works of darkness, O ye children of the day." Wakened by the solemn warning, Let the earth-bound soul arise; Christ, her sun, all sloth dispelling, Shines upon the morning skies. Lo! the Lamb, so long expected, Comes with pardon down from heaven; Let us haste, with tears of sorrow, One and all to be forgiven; So when next he comes with glory, And the world is wrapped in fear, May he with his mercy shield us, And with words of love draw near. Honor, glory, might, and blessing To the Father and the Son, With the everlasting Spirit While unending ages run.
Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast for paid subscribers, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks. Paid subscribers also receive audio-enhanced posts and on-demand access to our full archive, and may add their comments to our posts and discussions. To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. We value all of our subscribers, and we thank you for reading Word and Song!
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