The purist might observe my fifth choice was an Epiphany Hymn rather than a carol, and this one - my fourth choice -is an Advent Hymn. But then again, one reason I like it is that it is as old as Christmas. Not the Mary-giving-birth Christmas but the regularised celebrating of the birth in the Christian Calendar as a separate event which, like Prudentius's hymn, dates from the fourth century. Baptists don't know what to do with it (let's be honest - we struggle to know what to do with anything before Charles Wesley or possibly five years ago's Soul Survivor) so we don't sing it. That's our loss though.
Of the Father’s heart begotten
Ere the world from chaos rose,
He is Alpha: from that Fountain,
All that is and hath been flows;
He is Omega, of all things
Yet to come the mystic Close,
Evermore and evermore.
Ere the world from chaos rose,
He is Alpha: from that Fountain,
All that is and hath been flows;
He is Omega, of all things
Yet to come the mystic Close,
Evermore and evermore.
By his word was all created;
He commanded and ’twas done;
Earth and sky and boundless ocean,
Universe of three in one,
All that sees the moon’s soft radiance,
All that breathes beneath the sun,
Evermore and evermore.
He commanded and ’twas done;
Earth and sky and boundless ocean,
Universe of three in one,
All that sees the moon’s soft radiance,
All that breathes beneath the sun,
Evermore and evermore.
He assumed this mortal body,
Frail and feeble, doomed to die,
That the race from dust created
Might not perish utterly,
Which the dreadful Law had sentenced
In the depths of hell to lie,
Evermore and evermore.
Frail and feeble, doomed to die,
That the race from dust created
Might not perish utterly,
Which the dreadful Law had sentenced
In the depths of hell to lie,
Evermore and evermore.
O how blest that wondrous birthday,
When the Maid the curse retrieved,
Brought to birth mankind’s salvation,
By the Holy Ghost conceived,
And the Babe, the world’s Redeemer,
In her loving arms received,
Evermore and evermore.
When the Maid the curse retrieved,
Brought to birth mankind’s salvation,
By the Holy Ghost conceived,
And the Babe, the world’s Redeemer,
In her loving arms received,
Evermore and evermore.
Sing, ye heights of heaven, his praises;
Angels and Archangels, sing!
Wheresoe’er ye be, ye faithful,
Let your joyous anthems ring,
Every tongue his name confessing,
Countless voices answering,
Evermore and evermore.
Angels and Archangels, sing!
Wheresoe’er ye be, ye faithful,
Let your joyous anthems ring,
Every tongue his name confessing,
Countless voices answering,
Evermore and evermore.
Written in Latin originally the poem sets out the meaning of the Son of God becoming flesh as thoroughly as can be imagined in a few lines: no snow here - just an amazing contrast between the soaring dignity of the Creator and the dusty doomed-to-die state of the human race to which he came. And then it soars back to the glory. The tune to which it is sung is haunting yet melodic and rare in being duple metre.
Here it is from St George's Cathedral in Southwark.
If you watch the video moderately closely you'll quickly gather that the congregation there couldn't sing it either, though the choir does great. The best bit comes in the devastating third verse (2:00 on the video) when inexplicably (albeit on a live broadcast) the director pans to two ladies who appear to be discussing the way to the bus home and a little chap in a Santa hat pops up behind them as the choir sings about the human race subjected by the old Law to lie in hell.
No matter how awesome the words of a carol we always seem to be able to puncture them when we celebrate Christmas . . .
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