“Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me. . . . Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.”
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November now—a month, that makes psalmists of us all. On the Mountain, and in the Park, the evergreens are singing the 23rd with a soulful serenity—the soulful serenity of a Stoic sage:
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
In Saint-Louis Square, the melancholy maples mesmerize with a wrenching rendition of the 55th—awash in a soulful sadness—the soulful sadness of a grieving Górecki:
“Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me. . . . Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.”
In the grey skies above, geese fill the air with a masterful interpretation of the 91st:
“He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust:”
But if you long to hear the 46th, you’ve gotta go down to the River—gotta share some secrets with the Saint. Larry roars in the springtime, it’s true; but it’s November now—and his voice is soft and sweet, no louder than a whisper:
“Be still,” he says, “and know that I am God.”
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This article originally appeared on Committing Sociology
Photo credit: Getty Images