January Hymn

by Colin Meloy

On a winter's Sunday I go
To clear away the snow
And green the ground below

April all an ocean away
Is this the better way to spend the day?
Keeping the winter at bay

What were the words I meant to say before you left?
When I could see your breath
Lead where you were going to
Maybe I should just let it be
And maybe it will all come back to me
Sing, 'Oh January, oh'

How I lived a childhood in snow
And all my teens in tow
Stuffed in strata of clothes

Pale the winter days after dark
Wandering the grey memorial park
A fleeting beating of hearts

What were the words I meant to say before she left?
When I could see her breath
Lead where she were going to
Maybe I should just let it be
And maybe it will all come back to me
Sing, 'Oh January, oh'

Valley Winter Song

by Adam Schlesinger

Hey Sweet ——, don't take it so bad
You know the summer's coming soon
Though the interstate is choking under salt and dirty sand
And it seems the sun is hiding from the moon

Your daddy told you when you were a girl
The kind of things that come to those who wait
So give it a rest, girl, take a deep breath, girl
And meet me at the Bay State tonight

And the snow is coming down
On our New England town
And it's been falling all day long
What else is new?
What could I do?
I wrote a valley winter song
To play for you

And late December can drag a man down
You feel it deep in your gut
Short days and afternoons spent pottering around
In a dark house with the windows painted shut

Remember New York staring outside
As reckless winter made its way
From Staten Island to the Upper West Side
Whiting out our streets along the way

And the snow is coming down
On our New England town
And it's been falling all day long
What else is new?
What can I do?
But sing this valley winter song
I wrote for you

Wake Up Love

by Melanie Penn

My love is buried underground
A hidden landmine
When you're near, a wire's wound around
My heart tight

The weight of words as of yet unsaid
Guarded well and strong as death
I know I never know what to say
What to do or who to be
Or how to change

But this I know
I'm up in flames
Oh, I've gone up in flames

And I can feel it flashing like a fire
Bright and jealous in desire
But I won't wake up love
I won't wake up love

My love is written in the sky
An airplane's ramblings
The day's clear, my love is spelled in white
Clouds of writing

And I know you may not be ready yet
Guarded well and strong as death
I know you never know what to think
Or why you feel how you do
And who's to blame

But this I know
I won't go away
Oh, I'll never go away

I don't know a river that'll drown
Or dry it up but when it's sleeping sound
I won't wake up love
I won't wake up love

How do you wake up love?

When I Grow Up (To Be a Man)

by Brian Wilson

When I grow up to be a man

Will I dig the same things that turn me on as a kid?
Will I look back and say that I wish I hadn't done what I did?
Will I joke around and still dig those sounds?
When I grow up to be a man

Will I look for the same things in a woman that I dig in a girl?
Will I settle down fast, or will I first want to travel the world?
Well, I'm young and free, but how will it be?
When I grow up to be a man

Will my kids be proud or think their old man's really a square?
When they're out having fun, will I still want to have my share?
Will I love my wife for the rest of my life?
When I grow up to be a man

What will I be when I grow up to be a man?
Won't last forever
It's kind of sad

Maud Muller

by John Greenleaf Whittier

Maud Muller on a summer's day
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,—

A wish that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And asked a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

'Thanks!' said the Judge; 'a sweeter draught
'From a fairer hand was never quaffed.'

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: 'Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!

'He would dress me up in silks so fine,
'And praise and toast me at his wine.

'My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
'My brother should sail a pointed boat.

'I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
'And the baby should have a new toy each day.

'And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
'And all should bless me who left our door.'

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.

'A form more fair, a face more sweet,
'Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

'And her modest answer and graceful air
'Show her wise and good as she is fair.

'Would she were mine, and I to-day,
'Like her, a harvester of hay.

'No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
'Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

'But low of cattle and song of birds,
'And health and quiet and loving words.'

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, and with a secret pain,
'Ah, that I were free again!

'Free as when I rode that day,
'Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.'

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through a wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein;

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, 'It might have been.'

Maud Muller on a summer's day
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry gleee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,—

A wish that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And asked a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

'Thanks!' said the Judge; 'a sweeter draught
'From a fairer hand was never quaffed.'

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: 'Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!

'He would dress me up in silks so fine,
'And praise and toast me at his wine.

'My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
'My brother should sail a pointed boat.

'I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.

'And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
'And all should bless me who left our door.'

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.

'A form more fair, a face more sweet,
'Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

'And her modest answer and graceful air
'Show her wise and good as she is fair.

'Would she were mine, and I to-day,
'Like her, a harvester of hay.

'No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
'Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

'But low of cattle and song of birds,
'And health and quiet and loving words.'

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, and with a secret pain,
'Ah, that I were free again!

'Free as when I rode that day,
'Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.'

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through a wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein;

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, 'It might have been.'

Alas for the maiden, alas for the Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

Walk Away

by Joe Walsh

Taking my time
Choosing my line
Trying to decide what to do
Looks like my stop
Don't want to get off
Got myself hung up on you

Seems to me
You don't want to talk about it
Seems to me
You just turn your pretty head and walk away

Places I've known
Things that I'm growing
Don't taste the same without you
I got myself in
The worst mess I've been
And I find myself starving without you

Seems to me
Talk all night, here comes the morning
Seems to me
You just forget what we said and greet the day

I got to cool myself down
Stomping around
Thinking some words I can't name you
I'll meet you half way
I got nothing to say
Still I don't suppose I can blame you

from Perelandra

by C.S. Lewis

from Chapter Four

[Editor's Note: I find this illustration by C.S. Lewis of God's providence and human response to be particularly insightful.

As a matter of context, for better understanding the passage, this is from the second book in Lewis' 'Space Trilogy'. Ransom has been sent from Earth to Venus (called Perelandra) for an unknown purpose. When he arrives he finds a world analogous to Eden before the Fall, complete with Adam and Eve personae (here called the King and the Lady; Maledil is their name for God). Lady is an especially curious person, eager to learn from Ransom. This passage proceeds from a discussion where Ransom refused to explain the meaning of death.]

'You could never understand, Lady,' [Ransom] replied. 'But in our world not all events are pleasing or welcome. There may be such a thing that you would cut off both your arms and your legs to prevent it happening—and yet it happens: with us.'

'But how can one wish any of those waves not to reach us which Maledil is rolling towards us?'

Against his better judgment Ransom found himself goaded into argument.

'But even you,' he said, 'when you first saw me, I know now you were expecting and hoping that I was the King. When you found I was not, your face changed. Was that event not unwelcome? Did you not wish it to be otherwise?'

'Oh,' said the Lady. She turned aside with her head bowed and her hands clasped in an intensity of thought.

[....]

'What you have made me see,' answered the Lady, 'is as plain as the sky, but I never saw it before. Yet it has happened every day. One goes into the forest to pick food and already the thought of one fruit rather than another has grown up in one's mind. Then, it may be, one finds a different fruit and not the fruit one thought of. One joy was expected and another is given. But this I had never noticed before—that the very moment of the finding is in the mind a kind of thrusting back, or setting aside. The picture of the fruit you have not found is still, for a moment, before you. And if you wished—if it were possible to wish—you could keep it there. You could send your soul after the good you had expected, instead of turning it to the good you had got. You could refuse the real good; you could make the real fruit taste insipid by thinking of the other.'

Ransom interrputed. 'That is hardly the same thing as finding a stranger when you wanted your husband.'

'Oh, that is how I came to understand the whole thing. You and the King differ more than two kinds of fruit. The joy of finding him again and the joy of all the new knowledge I have had from you are more unlike than two tastes; and when the difference is as great as that, and each of the two things so great, then the first picture does stay in the mind quite a long time—many beats of the heart—after the other good has come. And this, O Piebald, is the glory and wonder you have made me see; that it is I, I myself, who turn from the good expected to the given good. Out of my own heart I do it. One can conceive a heart which did not: which clung to the good it had first thought of and turned the good which was given it into no good.'

[....]

'And have you no fear,' said Ransom, 'that it will ever be hard to turn your heart from the thing you wanted to the thing Maledil sends?'

'I see,' said the Lady presently. 'The wave you plunge into may be very swift and great. You may need all your force to swim into it. You mean, He might send me a good like that?'

'Yes—or like a wave so swift and great that all your force was too little.'

'It often happens that way in swimming,' said the Lady. 'Is not that part of the delight?'

'But are you happy without the King? Do you not want the King?'

'Want him?' she said. 'How could there be anything I did not want?'

There was something in her replies that began to repel Ransom.

'You can't want him very much if you are happy without him,' he said: and was immediately surprised at the sulkiness of his own voice.

'Why?' asked the Lady.

Have Thine Own Way

by Adelaide Potter

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Thou art the Potter, I am the clay.
Mold me and make me after Thy will,
While I am waiting, yielded and still.

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Search me and try me, Master, today!
Whiter than snow, Lord, wash me just now,
As in Thy presence humbly I bow.

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Wounded and weary, help me, I pray!
Power, all power, surely is Thine!
Touch me and heal me, Savior divine.

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Hold o'er my being absolute sway!
Fill with Thy Spirit till all shall see
Christ only, always, living in me.