I was eighteen when, on Easter Day,
I confessed my faith in God the Father,
in Jesus, His only begotten Son, and
in the Holy Spirit, who proceeded
from the Father and the Son.
I wanted my ‘yes’ to be so audible,
that my Father and Mother, six rows behind me
could hear it too.
Instead, I just nodded my head,
for I remembered . . .
Good Friday morning. I climbed
the spiraling, creaking stairs
to the organ loft,
young and inexperienced,
I needed to practice
for the evening service.
I would improvise on
“O Sacred Head Now Wounded”,
but the possibilities
of that mournful melody eluded me.
As I kicked away the wooden blocks
under the organ bench
so my feet could reach the pedals,
a bleak morning sun
threw flecks of diffused colour
on the richly carved organ front.
A cross appeared above the keyboards,
the shadow of the crossed timbers
in the stained-glass windows.
My eyes fastened on that cross,
and suddenly I saw the body of Jesus
writhing in agonizing grief.
His pain-narrowed eyes looked down
on the black and white keys,
then centered on me.
Looking up to the cross,
my fingers began to wander
aimlessly over the keys, until
a shuddering wave of grief
signaled a single melody
from heart to hands.
As it returned from its journey
along the vaulted ceiling
I added a counter-tune
and suddenly, outside my own will,
the organ seemed to sing by itself,
only using my hands and feet
as necessary tools.
When the sun hid behind dark clouds,
dissolving the sharp outline
of the cross, my consciousness
– which had seemed to float
with the lamenting melody
over multi-coloured pews –
returned, and I sensed
a Presence
behind me.
I did not dare to look.
Through my tears I scanned the stops,
pulled out the Trumpet, Mixture I and II,
and the organ swelled with my longing:
“Oh, make me thine forever,
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never,
Outlive my love for Thee.”
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