Prometheum_x:
It does the Lord much more justice than what? I’m not quite sure that it is fair to take one of the more well known works by a brilliant composer that has had the fortune of being adopted as religious music (at least in many circles) and compare it with your run-of-the-mill secular song written today.
OK, the secular American Opera; The Saint of Bleecker Street, written by the less known agnostic Gian Carlo Menotti, (in 1954) does the Lord more justice.
In Act One, Annina’s Good Friday vision of The Passion of Our Lord gave me goose bumps the first time I heard it. This secular aria would be perfect for Our Lady of Sorrows:
(As if pierced by an arrow Annina emits a stifled cry, her body suddenly convulses by pain.)
**Annina **(Still with eyes closed and a tormented expression on her face, as if fighting a fearful force.) “Ah, sweet Jesus, spare me this agony. Too great a pain is this for one so weak. Ah, my aching heart, must you again withstand the trial?”
(opening her eyes)
“Where am I? Who are these people? When have I seen this road before, when this barren hill? What is this drunken crowd waiting for? Ah, dreadful presentiment!”
(She gets up as if in a trance and slowly moves through the kneeling neighbors.)
“Eager and loud, they push and sway under the festival sun. What do they want? What are they waiting for?”
(She moves her arms as if fighting her way through a crowd.)
“I cannot see. Eh! Don’t push me. Let me see. Please make room for me. Oh! Oh! I see now, I see now! Oh blinding sight! Oh, pain! Oh, love!”
(starring intently ahead)
"They come up the bending road in golden armour, the soldiers, and among them a purple cloak. My Jesus! How large a cross for one man to bear! Dust in his mouth and salt of bitter tears, his cheeks dripping with blood shed by the sharp and cruel crown. Ah! But his eyes! Such patient love? Ah! He falters. They are on him with whips. He struggles on again!”
(Suddenly disturbed, her eyes search through the imaginary crowd.)
“Someone is weeping. Where? I see now a group of wailing women standing behind the crowd. Weakened by weeping, they sway like reeds as they slowly move. Tall amongst them, Her eyes deepened with pain, the Holy Virgin Stands. Why, Mary, why did you come? No cross can weigh nor nail can pierce as can a mother’s sorrow. Why, Mary, why did you come? Oh, women, take her home… When our God will die, only Her son will bear the agony. Oh take Her, take Her home. It is her very flesh that will be torn by spear and nail. Oh, take Her, take Her home. Oh, women, take Her home. No hill was ever higher. The whole world can see the Son of God, sweet Jesus standing there. His palm is now held open. Those Hands that gave us all, by us are to be pierced. Soldier, soldier, have mercy on Him. For He alone is you Saviour. The nail is held in place. The huge hammer is raised. Ah!
(With a piercing cry she falls back on the pillows)
Chorus of neighbors: “Oh how pail her cheeks! Christ has died."
(Annina’s limp hands slowly open, revealing the bleeding stigmata)