Oldest of all Psalms, that has been and will be the Psalm of the wilderness Church for ever. First sung in the desert, there is in it a breathing of desert air, a perpetual reminiscence of those who had no city to dwell in, but who sought one to come. These who prayed it that night were all desert-dwellers: and no one of them felt the journey so weary, or the wilderness air so keen, as that one handsomely robed worshipper with the gold chain about his neck, whom one or two of the poorer ones were almost unconsciously envying, and imagining that he had never breathed the air, nor felt a second's weariness from the journey.
"His thoughts they scanned not: but I ween
That could their import have been seen,
The meanest groom in all the hall
That e'er tied courser to a stall,
Would scarce have wished to be their prey,
For Lutterward and Fountenay."[#]
[#] Scott's Marmion.
After the prayer came the monition. There was no singing. The voice of the spiritual singer was silent during the corrupt ages of the Church. Britons and Anglo-Saxons had sung hymns freely: but one after another the voices were hushed, and no new ones rose. Except in her authorised services, and to words chosen by herself, the Church frowned upon sacred music. This was especially remarkable, in an age when the popular love for secular music was at a height to which, in England at least, it has never risen since. It was reserved for Martin Luther to unlock the sealed spring, and let the frozen waters dash downwards in a joyous cataract.
The text was taken from the fifty-fifth Psalm,[#] "There is no mutation to them, and they fear not God." The preacher touched lightly, first, on the changes and chances of this mortal life. In the eyes of inexperienced youth, change is a glad thing, for it is always expected to be for the better, and it accords with that eager restlessness which is the natural feeling of youthful minds. But when middle age is reached, and when men have known trouble, change ceases to be so welcome. It may be good still: we are not so ready to take it for granted that it must be. And when old age is come, or when men have lived through much sorrow, we become afraid of all change, and averse to it. What we desire then is not change and variety; it is rest and peace.
[#] Verse 19.
"Brethren," said the monk in that low, quiet voice of his, which yet was so distinct that it penetrated every corner, "this is a world of change, wherein we ourselves are the most changeable of all things. There is only one Man that changeth not, who is the same to-day, and yesterday, and to all the ages. There is only one Land where is no autumn. Change is not needed there, for all is perfect. But here, no mutation signifieth no betterment. It is the nature of earthly things to become worser: it is the nature of heavenly things to grow fairer, purer, better. And here, were there no worser changes in things around us, there would be no better change in things within us. Nay! but all we be apt to think the very contrary. Oh! saith one, if I had not lost mine having—if I had not lost my children—if I were but better off, with no fear of losing the same, then I would live to God. Brethren, if ye cannot live to God in the place where He has set you, ye will never do the same in the place where you set yourselves.
"Think you, in spiritual things, no change is death. Growth is life. While a plant liveth, it must needs grow and bud and put forth leaves. Let that cease, and what say you at once? The plant is dead.
"Look, I pray you, what the prophet saith of Moab. Quoth he, 'Moab hath prospered from his youth up, and hath rested on the dregs of him: nor hath he been poured from bowl to bowl, and hath not gone a-journeying: wherefore his taste abideth in him, and his scent is not changed.'[#] And what saith God unto His people that had gone far from Him—'Wherefore should ye be stricken more?'[#]
[#] Jer. xlviii. 11, Vulgate.