New Every Morning

It's a steely-blue sky out there. The grass is green, the first Woodbine-coughs of the sparrows, breathing as they do air that is infused with the diesel fumes from the M1, can be heard over the quietness of the scattered hamlets of Husborne Crawley.

Morning's a funny time. To the romantics such as Aelfride, who was out betimes skipping around and washing her face in the dew of dawn, it's a time of magic and excitement. As the light increases, things that were spectral and eerie become the old loved and familiar trees and buildings that they always were. She then rushes, energised and excited, into Pouring Out of Beakers to tell us how wonderful life is.

Mind you, she also tells us that the stars are God's daisy-chain, and has been heard to say "hullo trees, hullo flowers."  She is an utter weed chiz and we need not dwell on her any longer.

For others, joy doesn't always come in the morning. And I don't just refer to those who've overdone it on the gin-and-winegums the night before. There are those for whom sweet is the night, and dreams bring release - those for whom the morning is an enemy, for whom the day brings emptiness, and consciousness dread. Those for whom the only appropriate response, in the words of Adams' bowl of petunias, is "Oh no, not again." And the relentless cheery chirping of the Aurorophiles will never drown out the dreadful shuddering of the Aurorophobes. It is for those that hate mornings that today we will dedicate our first hymn, "Man of Constant Sorrows".

For six long years I've been in trouble
No pleasures here on earth I found
For in this world I'm bound to ramble
I have no friends to help me now.

(chorus) He has no friends to help him now.

And when I consider the fate of those for whom the morning is a curse, that's when I see the power in this:

"Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Saviour." (Hab 3:17-18)

When Jeremiah - or someone with a very similar beard, at any rate - looked out across the devastated city of Jerusalem - its walls broken down, its young men killed, women taken as spoils of war, children murdered or hungry in the streets - he used with these words:

"This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope
It is of the LORD's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning. Great is thy faithfulness." (Lam 3:21-23)

The words of a dreamer? Maybe. But words of one who is out of touch with reality? No. Words of defiance, and hope and sheer resistance? Certainly.

Mornings can be bleak, and the oblivion of night preferable. But a bright hope remains and shines for those who cling on to the faith they have.

Maybe your friends think I'm just a stranger
My face you never will see no more
But there is one promise that is given,
I'll meet you on Gods golden shore

(Chorus) He'll meet you on God's golden shore.

And now I really must go and get a cup of decent coffee. I hate mornings.