i was browsing through classical music earlier today, and came across what might be the most despondent sounding piece of art i have ever heard. you know something is truly art when you feel what the artist must have felt. hopeless, fear-ridden, like he was drowning in a pain that would never end. for a brief moment, you feel the promise of hope -- the emotion evolves and you feel... free. and then it's back. the haunting sorrow. the anguish. what a perfect picture of the human condition without the knowledge, the conviction of grace. for the knowledge itself is not enough. a person needs to feel something before it seems real. go listen, and see if you understand:
had chopin been a poet instead of a composer, perhaps he might have written something like this?
burn, icy hand upon my heart
and cut my soul to pieces
leave not one whole part
that would feel again
sing, haunting melody of spite
triumph in your brief hour
set all breath in me to flight
erase the memory of what i could have been
leave no trace of soul
keep my heart bleeding
always broken, never whole
until i forget my needing
why do we let ourselves forget that we are loved, redeemed; that our price has been paid, that we cannot do a single thing that would cause us to be forsaken? how can we not feel infinitely overwhelmed by the fact that, despite what lowly, putrid, worms we are, God chose to love us anyway. why do we not just sit and revel in that fact? that glorious, consuming, rapturous love. that we don't deserve. that we will never deserve. why do we keep trying so hard? why can't we accept the gift our father has given us? why can't i? why don't i feel it as i ought?
