Dear Friends, This Good Friday I am sending two hymns and two images.
You might recognize the first one as painting from the back of the sanctuary as one of them: a painting given to the parish by the artist Irving Sinclair many years ago. I've rendered it in black and white, deliberately darkly here.
The other is a 'crown of thorns' sitting on the Lord's table at the front of the church, the crown Jesus bore in mockery, but in fact is his crown of glory. I offer these images and this music this morning for your reflection, as you ‘behold your King upon the cross…’
I will be praying the Litany for Good Friday later today, in a quiet spot, and thinking of you, praying for the community, for your blessing, health and safety.
And that the boundless love of God embraces you, sustains and accompanies you.
in the bond of God’s grace, always, Sarah
PS the words of two Good Friday Hymns follow. You can find the music files of Ed Norman playing them on St. Margaret’s pipe organ below.
When I survey the wondrous cross
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died
My richest gain I count but loss
And pour contempt on all my pride
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Save in the death of Christ my God
All the vain things that charm me most
I sacrifice them to His blood
See from His head, His hands, His feet
Sorrow and love flow mingled down
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were the whole realm of Nature mine
That were an offering far too small
Love so amazing, so divine
Demands my soul, my life, my all!
O sacred head now wounded
O sacred Head, now wounded
With grief and shame weighed down
Now scornfully surrounded
With thorns, Thine only crown
How pale thou art with anguish
With sore abuse and scorn
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered
T'was all for sinners' gain
Mine, mine was the transgression
But Thine the deadly pain
Lo, here I fall, my Savior'
Tis I deserve Thy place
Look on me with Thy favor
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace
What language shall I borrow
To thank Thee, dearest friend
For this Thy dying sorrow
Thy pity without end
O make me Thine forever
And should I fainting be
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love for Thee
