A Meditation on Wilt Thou Forgive

In honor of English Priest and Poet John Donne, Jessica Hodge from our music team reflects on one of Donne’s pieces, now made into a hymn.

Click on this link to hear this hymn:
140: Wilt thou forgive? | John Hilton setting

 

A Hymn to God the Father

I

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,

    Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

     And do run still: though still I do deplore?

        When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

      For, I have more.

II

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won

     Others to sin? and, made my sin their door?

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun

     A year, or two: but wallowed in, a score?

           When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

For I have more.

III

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

    My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;

But swear by thy self, that at my death thy son

     Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;

          And having done that, thou hast done,

I fear no more.

~John Donne

 

I found this hymn at the beginning of Lent while playing through our hymnal. The haunting contemplative melody, combined with John Donne’s reflection on his sin is striking. Written from his sick-bed, this poem comes from the later portion of John Donne’s life. He was working as the dean of St. Paul’s in London at the time, and had suffered the death of his wife and multiple children. Izaak Walton, in his biography of Donne, tells us that, “he caused it to be set to a most grave and solemn tune, and to be often sung to the organ by the Choristers of St. Paul’s Church, in his own hearing; especially at the Evening Service; and at his return from his customary devotions in that place, did occasionally say to a friend, ‘the words of this Hymn have restored to me the same thoughts of joy that possessed my soul in my sickness, when I composed it. And, O the power of church-music! that harmony added to this Hymn has raised the affections of my heart, and quickened my graces of zeal and gratitude; and I observe that I always return from paying this public duty of prayer and praise to God, with an unexpressible tranquility of mind, and a willingness to leave the world.’”  It is hard for me to imagine this hymn, with its minor melody  by John Hilton and heart-rending confession from Donne, giving anyone an “unexpressible tranquility of mind.” In fact, the words strike me as almost morbid–this kind of meditation upon one’s own sin feels foreign, startling. Perhaps a childhood and young adulthood spent in Evangelical Bible churches may be the cause of my discomfort. We didn’t dwell on our sins or have a liturgy of corporate confession. If I am honest, I am still learning how to mentally and emotionally approach the routines of confession in morning and evening prayer as well as the Eucharistic liturgy.

Thus, when encountering this poem in the music of John Hilton I find myself asking–what is the place for such a searching, piercing, even desperate prayer which inquires of God whether he could forgive my many sins? And how is it that Donne could arrive, through such a prayer, to that peace and joy which Walton describes? The compilers of the Anglican hymnal answer for me: Lent.

In Lent, when through fasting and prayer I enter into the wilderness of my soul and find that for all my resolution and willpower, I, like the Israelites, am full of longing for the things left behind;

In Lent, when in hunger or desire I find that my longings and desires lead me not to the God who provides manna in the desert but only to my own inability to seek him;

It is during Lent when I feel not like a well-watered garden or a brilliant light, but simply like a weary, complaining Israelite wandering in the wilderness, that I might learn to pray with John Donne– “Wilt thou forgive?”

And in this Lent, of all others, which we could never have expected, these words seem especially piercing. For we have been given a Lent we did not choose, that we cannot get out of, one that we cannot escape by leaving our Lenten disciplines behind. This is a Lent that by all accounts will likely last far past the allotted forty days. In this Lent, many of us are unaccountably alone, while some of us have houses suddenly filled with children who should have been at school.  We taste now the deprivation of an un-chosen wilderness in the bare shelves of the grocery store, the lack of a pay-check, the disappointment of our plans for the future, the silence of our own homes, the longing to partake in the Eucharist.

Here it is that we find ourselves entering, willing or unwilling, into the wilderness of our own failure, longing, despair, anxiety, loneliness. Here it is that the promise of Lent comes to us quietly, like a whisper, if we can listen in the silence. It was told to us the very first Sunday of Lent: Christ is in the wilderness. Christ is already here, hungry and thirsty, tired and sore-tempted, and yet not defeated. He sees his sheep, harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd, and he calls to us, “Come to me.”

This is what Donne saw in his time of illness that gave him great comfort: that Christ dares to be with us in the awful moments of our own wilderness. He goes with us into the moments of lack. He sees every sin we commit, every misery in our heart, and yet he forgives. He forgives the sin into which we were born, the sin into which we led others, the sins of fear that keep us awake at night. More than that–he loves us abundantly, tenderly, intimately.

Here, in this Lent which is out of all human control, he calls to us, “Take up your cross, and follow me.” If we could stay with him through the struggles of working remotely, staying inside, worrying over the news, trying to homeschool our children for the first time, finding ourselves lonely, tired, and helpless, it is here, in our lack, that we might find his abundance.  If we could stay with him, abide with him through his terrible sufferings, through his own abandonment, and be baptized into his death, then we might come with him to the joy of resurrection and say with Donne, “I fear no more.”

Dear Lord and Savior Jesus Christ: I hold up all my weakness to your strength, my failure to your faithfulness, my sinfulness to your perfection, my loneliness to your compassion, my little pains to your great agony on the Cross. I pray that you will cleanse me, strengthen me, guide me, so that in all ways my life may be lived as you would have it lived, without cowardice and for you alone. Show me how to live in true humility, true contrition, and true love.  Amen.

Jessica Hodge