Years ago, I won an honorable mention in a
song-writing contest. My entry was called “Down So Low,” an account of being
spiritually lost, but rescued by Jesus. I always pictured it being sung in an R
and B style, with girls in the background echoing “down so low” in a
high-pitched tone. I never found anybody to put it to music. One friend tried,
but he did a sort of country/folk tune. I think we disappointed each other, but
we didn’t really talk about it, and the song vanished into the ether.
And then I wrote something called “Come On
Home,” which invites the lost and lonesome to return to the haven of the
church. Another friend found a tune in the hymnal that fit the words, and got
someone to sing it in church. She said she’d never seen me look so happy. That
song faded into the mist. More recently, a talented young friend used a
poem/song of mine as the text for a composing class assignment. She got an A+.
I handed it around church, but it never made it into the rotation.
A month or so ago, I took a crack at
translating a psalm into modern language.
Psalm 117
Better praise Him, you nations.
Better praise Him, all people.
His love is great,
and He never fails,
so praise Him, everyone.
Better praise Him, all people.
His love is great,
and He never fails,
so praise Him, everyone.
It doesn’t seem to have inspired the
worship leader I showed it to. Yet I am undaunted. Well, I am a little daunted,
but I still keep thinking against all evidence that I have something to offer. My
model is the young Isaac Watts, who complained so much about lousy translations
of psalms being sung in the late 17th and early 18th centuries, his father told
him, “Okay, kid, write something better.” Or words to that effect. He wrote
about 600 hymns, including Joy to the World, Join All the Glorious Names, Jesus
Shall Reign, Come We That Love the Lord and other hits that still grace the
hymnals.
Yeah. I’m not in that league, but I still
think some of my stuff is better than the awkward strings of unrelated
worshipy-sounding terms that too often pass for “praise” music in the church
today. Now that I’ve offended a bunch of musicians, I shall toss out my latest
effort, scribbled in the margins of a book. See what you think.
The
Sun Came Up
You held me like a baby, led me like a
lamb,
placed me on a path I couldn’t see.
You fed me bits of manna, words of sweetest
truth;
it tasted real to me.
The light began to dawn, it drove away the
shadows;
colors glowed where all had once been grey.
I saw the empty tomb, a place that might
have held me,
but I was free.
The sun came up that day.
The sun came up; the light was Jesus.
He took my hand; He leads me every day.
The sun came up; the light was Jesus.
He took my hand; He leads me every day.
