Written in 1860, Englishman William Whiting’s “Eternal Father, Strong to Save,” known in the United States as the “Navy Hymn,” and in Great Britain and many Commonwealth nations, the “Royal Navy Hymn,” ranks high on my “Top Ten List” of favorites. The melancholy, prayerful, and somber yet chilling nature of the lyrics, matches the close harmonies of the tune, John B. Dyke’s “Melita.” Together, they capture both the vast and dark expanse of the deep sea and the cavernous plaintiff cries of the mourners lamenting the condition of lost shipmates who now sleep beneath the depths. The piece is rightly performed at naval funerals in many countries.
Funerals. The proper time for lament. Perhaps, in our society, the only appropriate time for lament, or so suggests Glenn Pemberton in Hurting with God: Learning to Lament with the Psalms. Maybe, he’s right, at least for most people. But, “lament” does not equate with complaint or depression. Lament, according to Professor Pemberton, is a God-given form of deeply felt prayer. It gives expression to honesty – and ultimately, to release.
In a previous post, “The ‘Wright’ Guidance,” I exposed the reader to the ideas of Bishop N. T. Wright, writing in God and the Pandemic: A Christian Reflection on the Coronavirus and its Aftermath, Zondervan, 2020. Bishop Wright suggests that the world’s current state of affairs calls for a time of lament, lament as we find in about 40% of the Psalms.
I’ve been trying that, but I have discovered that I do not lament well. It seems that it’s just not in my nature or training. It is my preference to always search for the bright side and to disdain much moping about. As I retraced the course of that discovery, an image came to my mind’s eye and a song in my mind’s ear – The Navy Hymn, Eternal Father, Strong to Save. May I suggest that you listen to the following track as you read below.. https://youtu.be/h7nswbxC2jo
Through the soulish glass of that organ of inner vision, plain as day, I beheld a faceless figure swimming silently and effortlessly upon the surface of a cerulean sea.
And, lo, in the background, yet a ways off in the distance, the cobalt-coloured shape of a ship, broke in half, slowly and quietly sank.
O, the swimming figure could not see the ship because he swam away from it, away from the sun that, in its accustomed course, streaked forth the first rays of eventide, backlighting the broken boat in its crimson-hued decline.
Quietly, barely perceptible, the sun was setting. Quieter, barely visible, the ship was sinking. Quieter still, the foreground figure was floating.
“But, was it truly that quiet?” I mused as it seemed that in my mind’s ear, I could hear the mellifluous melody of the Navy Hymn.
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm doth bind the restless wave,
Who bids the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea. – William Whiting.
Obliviously, the swimming figure heard not the tender tones – because, in his head, he was humming a happy song. Nay, the figure heard not the creaking of the midships’ breaking upon the horizon, nor heard yet the burgeoning “boom” of her blowing boilers.
And, incomprehensibly, he apprehended not the last breath’s expiration from the sailors recently billeted aboard but now consigned to an ocean’s gloomy grave.
Insensible, the form regarded not the deaf, dumb, and blind thrashing about of the lost loved ones ‘neath the star-spangled shape so far astern.
Nay comprehended he not yet the subsurface stream of shipmen carelessly carried by the irresistible current from the craft to himward.
And, ultimately, perceived he not that sea of souls ‘neath his very own graceful glide – bent, bowed, broken – lying lifeless, levitating, merely meters below the character’s crawl.
Say, “How?” if you will. Say, “How?” if you can. Know not he of the sailors sinking fathoms below.
Tell me, “What doth he think, if think he doth do?” Doth he not ken, no eyebrow raise?”
“Carest he not that they perish, perish upon his watch?”
***
What’s that, you say? Whisper again. Nay, keep it not hid’ for others must hear. “That ship was not his – and neither her crew – nor was this his time.” +
Out of mind’s eye, away from mind’s ear. Cntrl+alt+delete. Whoosh! Vanished. Be ye gone.
‘Tia a sad tale, but truthful, too often it seems. That we so merrily float o’er the misery of the world. If that is not my world if these are not my people. If this is not my time. But, sadder to say that this very hour, that is myworld, these are my people, and this is my time.
Grieve then, lament, though that’s not your gift. Grab hold and ne’er let go. I be the person, that is the place, and this is the time for plights to be known, to be felt, to be heard, to be grasped, to be lamented.
“Others, Lord, yes others, let this my motto be.” Down on the knee, bend it for sure. Shed a tear, two, or three. Gush forth, O heart, nor aught hold back. The time is now, the place is here – the person is me.
“How long, O, Lord, how long?” Perhaps, He will reply. So let it be written, so let it be done.
johnthebaptist15 