I'm singing on the radio right now. But I hope you can't hear me -- I don't want to stand out. Our church congregation is one of the groups featured tonight on BBC Radio 2's "Sunday Half Hour." We must not have been too great -- they only played one verse of what I think was a 78-verse hymn.
Of course, it might just have seemed like 78 verses because we needed to do many, many takes so the sound engineers could work their production magic in preparing the show. (We recorded four or five songs back in June, and some of them will be on a September installment of this program.)
I have to confess I don't listen to this show very often, but I should, because they play actual hymns. I love my church very much, but I went to the recording session with the hidden motive to sing hymns in harmony, which we never do as part of our typical worship.
Nope, no traditional hymns on recording night either. The line-up for us and the orchestra consisted of very lovely and meaningful songs, none of which I knew in their local version. We sang them in unison. In a key that is way too high for my nearly masculine voice. Without any written music. As I've said before, I find this pretty frustrating, it's really hard for me. But fortunately I was seated next to a very vigorous singer who knew all these songs. And since we did so many takes, I finally figured out the tune and timings, and I was moved to be part of the whole experience.
Still, the song that put a lump in my throat tonight wasn't from our group. It was from a bunch of Welsh choirs, elegant and powerful, with incredible harmonies, singing a Fanny J. Crosby hymn I probably first learned at age 3 or 4:
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God, born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.
This is my story, this is my song, praising my savior saviour all the day long.
This is my story, this is my song, praising my savior saviour all the day long.
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