Hope burns on
Richard Wells
Primordial Light
O red rose,
Man lies in direst need,
Man lies in direst pain,
I would rather be in heaven.
I then came upon a broad path,
An angel came and sought to turn me back,
Ah no! I refused to be turned away.
I am from God and to God I will return,
Dear God will give me a light,
Will light my way to eternal blessed life.
Urlicht
O Röschen rot,
Der Mensch liegt in grösster Not,
Der Mensch liegt in grösster Pein,
Je lieber möcht ich im Himmel sein.
Da kam ich auf einen breiten Weg,
Da kam ein Engellein und wollt mich abweisen,
Ach nein ich liess mich nicht abweisen.
Ich bin von Gott und will wieder zu Gott,
Der liebe Gott wird mir ein Lichtchen geben,
Wird leuchten mir bis an das ewig selig Leben.
Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)
Music: Mahler’s Second Symphony, Movement IV “Urlicht”
Laetere Sunday[1] is always a special moment in Lent, but this year it will have a particular resonance. It represents a moment of relief in Lent, where at last we dare to peek forwards to Easter and the joy it brings. But this year, Laetere Sunday comes in the midst of a year of darkness during which we have come to yearn for a great deal that we always took for granted – but also at a time where we might just start to dare looking forwards in our everyday lives, too, to a time where our lives are safer and less restricted.
Mahler used many traditional poems, biblical references and folk stories in his works, perhaps most memorably in his second symphony. They blend religious themes and secular stories to create a hero that lives both in the earthly and the heavenly spheres. The second symphony tells a tale of Mahler’s hero that resonates powerfully with the journey through Lent and into Eastertide – a journey from pain and suffering to resurrection. But it has plenty to say on Laetere Sunday in particular, this moment rooted in both past and future, with all the complexity that goes with it.
In the Urlicht, a passionate movement where the orchestra is joined by a solo alto, the hero (and with him, all of humankind) lies in “direst need” and “direst pain”: he is deep in the wilderness of Lent. At the end of the preceding movement we hear what Mahler called a cry of despair, or even a death shriek. All of the musical scenery tells the story in a way that words alone never could. The key of this movement (Db major) is miles away from home (C minor), which makes its ethereal opening all the more unsettlingly beautiful. The narrative is full of unexpected twists and turns, with themes appearing only to slip away and reappear when least expected. The brass chorale at the opening leads us to expect fairly conventional development – the middle section throws us entirely off course, not quite knowing where we are headed with chromatic swings in tonality. The time signature drifts to and fro. It is both beautiful and entirely unsettled, sitting as it does in limbo - looking backwards trying to comprehend a cry of agony that still echoes around and yet being urged ever onwards, towards resurrection, light, joy.
And yet, despite the pain, despite the confusion and the conflicting emotions – despite everything, the hero refuses to be turned away from hope. Hope burns on.
He refuses to lose sight of the light that God has promised even though precious little of it dapples his path or warms his face. Notice that all of the verbs in the final two lines are in the future tense. It’s not burst into being yet, this great promised gift – but that does not douse the fire. Whenever I hear this work, I am reminded of the inscription on the wall of a cellar in Cologne, painfully carved by an unknown hand amongst a group of Jewish escapees hiding from the Nazis: “I believe in the sun even when it does not shine; I believe in love even when I do not feel it; I believe in God even when He is silent”. Hope burns on.
If you are reading this thinking that Mahler is not your thing – countless others have explored the same ground with equally compelling results. Try some of my favourites – have a listen to Puccini (whose cold-hearted princess nonetheless gazes transfixed upon “the stars that tremble with love, and with hope” in Nessun Dorma) or The Greatest Showman (where P. T. Barnum sings as a homeless child, “I think of what the world could be / A vision of the one I see / A million dreams is all it’s going to take”). Or explore Sam Cooke (“It’s been a long time coming / But I know, a change is gonna come”). Why not listen to Gregory Porter’s “Take Me to the Alley” – it’s a song of pure hope and trust. Hope burns on.
The hero knows that the triumphant final movement is coming – but he has yet to hear it, and anticipation crackles in the silence, mixed with the fear and suffering which will never be quite gone. We too must wait for the final movement – we must wait both for Easter, and for easier times in our everyday lives. But we know that both are coming, and whilst we are rooted in Lent’s introspection still, it is right – above all on Laetere Sunday – to rejoice in the knowledge that we are journeying together to joyful times, bound as one body by empathy and love. Hope burns on.
[1] Laetare Sunday is the Fourth Sunday of Lent. Marking a moment of joy and celebration amid the austerities of Lent, it takes its name from the Introit set for the day in the Roman Mass: Laetare Jerusalem: et conventum facite omnes qui diligitis eam: gaudete cum laetitia, qui in tristitia fuistis (Rejoice, O Jerusalem: and come together all you that love her: rejoice with joy, you that have been in sorrow) – from Isaiah 66.
