619. Dixit insipiens

A paraphrase of Psalm 53, a Maskil (or meditation psalm) by David, for the music director, "according to Mahalath," which could mean an existing musical pattern or a sad tone. I'm going to be too clever for my own good and set this hymn to the 1524 Wittenberg tune ES SPRICHT DER UNWEISEN MUND, originally associated with Martin Luther's paraphrase of the same psalm. Well, not exactly the same psalm; actually Psalm 14, which is very similar but not, for some reason, numbered among the Maskils. So, with no intention of plagiarizing Luther (and I'm not checking Richard Massie's translation – or mine, for that matter – to avoid having it fresh in mind):

The fool cries out, "There is no God,"
His hollow skull resounding.
Behold, meanwhile, men's moral rot,
Their vile misdeeds astounding.
God gazes on the sons of man
To see if any understands,
Or seeks His grace abounding.

But every soul has turned aside,
The righteous path deserted.
They walk perversely in their pride,
And justice have perverted.
God's little ones they gulp like bread;
And though they live in mortal dread,
Their hearts are unconverted.

Why will you not call on the Lord,
Despite your fear and trouble?
For you He bared His mighty sword,
Reduced your foes to rubble.
From Zion your salvation speeds—
From Him your recompense proceeds,
And Jacob's joy shall double!

618. Quid gloriaris

A paraphrase of Psalm 52, a Maskil (or meditation psalm) by David. According to the psalm's title, it came about when Doeg the Edomite reported to Saul that David had come to the house of Ahimelech (1 Samuel 22). If you can explain what's going on with my rhyme scheme, I'll be in your debt. Tune (and art): SCHLAF, KINDLEIN, SCHLAF by Louise Reichardt, †1826, which the Common Service Book paired with the hymn "Sleep, baby, sleep."

Why, O you strong,
Why do you boast in wrong?
God's faithfulness lasts all day long.
By your own blade, that lying tongue,
You will be stung.

False speaking knave!
Devouring words you crave.
God's tearing fury you will have;
You from your dwelling He will drive,
Of life deprive.

The just will see
And laugh, yet fearful be—
For you would not on God rely,
But on the wealth you had put by—
An evil eye!

But as for me,
I'm like an olive tree
In God's house planted, green for aye;
His faithful name is due always
My trust and praise.

617. Eructavit cor meum

A paraphrase of Psalm 45, a Maskil (or meditation psalm) of the sons of Korah; a song of love. For the music director, "according to the Shoshannim," possibly an existing musical pattern, or a mode or tone. For the tune, I'm leaning toward SUSSEX CAROL, which I previously paired with this hymn. Art: Song of Songs by Gustave Moreau (†1898), public domain.

My heart throbs with a lovely theme,
Devoted to my King divine.
My tongue, a pen with ready gleam,
Would praise His beauty, line by line:
Grace on Your lips, O Christ, is poured!
So has the Lord blessed You, my Lord!

Gird on Your sword, O Mighty One,
In splendor and in majesty!
Ride on, let victory be won
For justice, truth, humility.
Strong is Your arm and keen the dart,
Which cleaves the adversary's heart.

Your throne abides: a kingly mace
You wield to rule with equity.
Your God, O God, anoints Your face
With joy before Your company.
Your robes are fragrant with sweet balms;
Your courts resound with joyful psalms.

Your Bride and all her maidens wait
And, decked in costly ornament,
All that she had before shall hate,
If but Your eye on her be bent.
To you, the nations' daughters bow;
Wealth seekers seek Your favor now!

That Bride, all glorious in allure,
Awaits her Bridgeroom's festal cry,
When she will come with joy demure
Into Your kingly hall on high,
Where all her children, for all days,
Shall wreathe Your name with endless praise.

616. Quemadmodum

Continuing this series of paraphrases of the Maskils, or meditation psalms, here is Psalm 42: a Maskil of the sons of Korah, for the music director. Tune: the English folk melody O WALY WALY, which is sometimes erroneously attributed to Hal Hopson. The Ev. Lutheran Hymnary paired it with "O Trinity, most blessed light," and the Wisconsin Synod's 1990s Christian Worship with "Though I may speak with bravest fire." Art: Roe deer at a stream by Gustave Courbet, 1868, public domain.

As the deer longs for quenching rills,
So my soul longs for You, O God.
To see Your face it thirsts, it thrills:
My tears have been my only food.

My inmost soul I have poured out
Within Your church, Your house of praise:
I joined the congregation's shout,
Rejoicing in its festal days.

Why do you sag, my soul? What pain
Robs you within of hope and rest?
Wait for the Lord, who will again
Lift up the face of the distressed.

When my soul sags, I call to mind
All You have done, from Jordan's banks
Up to the peaks, and there I find
Deep calls to deep, a song of thanks.

Though waves and breakers passed above,
You sent Your goodness all day long;
So through the night Your saving love
Will be my constant prayer and song.

Shall I reply to God, my Rock,
"Have you forgotten me?" Indeed,
So goes my adversaries' talk:
"Where is your God in this your need?"

Why do you sag, my soul? What pain
Robs you within of hope and rest?
Wait for the Lord, who will again
Lift up the face of the distressed.

Ebenezer

I went to see Ebenezer, the latest film adaptation of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, last night. Johnny Depp inhabits the title role, who hardly needs any introduction after all the versions of the story we've all seen. Greedy, misanthropic, militantly anti-Christmas, he gets the hell scared out of him by visitations from, first, his dead partner Jacob Marley, and then three spirits representing Christmases past, present and future. You know how it goes. By the end he repents, making amends with his nephew Fred and working out a way his clerk, Bob, can save the health of his sickly boy, Tim. So much for the plot.

This Christmas Carol is Depp's chance to chew the scenery, and chew it he does, delivering an acting masterpiece. Besides that, and perhaps more notably, it's a horror-forward rendition of the story, with very little sentimentality and a much heavier accent on the scariness of the ghosts who plague Scrooge throughout the wee hours of Christmas morning. We also see the ghosts suffering quite a bit, and there are quite a few jump scares (such as a horse suddenly galloping by, or a crow taking wing), and the atmospherics are dark, damp and sooty. Yes, fear is definitely a major ingredient in this film, to the degree necessary to convince you that a man as thoroughly hardened in his miserliness as Scrooge could be scared straight.

I looked up director Ti West just now, and I'm not surprised to learn that he specializes in horror. Besides Depp, his cast includes Ron Weasley, I mean Rupert Grint, as Bob Cratchit; Gandalf, I mean Magneto, I mean Ian McKellen, as Marley and his ghost; Academy Award nominee Andrea Riseborough (To Leslie) as the Ghost of Christmas Past; Tramell Tillman, recently a heavy in Spider-Man: Brand New Day, as the Ghost of Christmas Present; Sam Claflin of the Hunger Games franchise and Enola Holmes as Fred; Arthur Conti of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice as young Scrooge; and Daisy Ridley of the recent Star Wars sequels as Fred's wife, Clara. Perhaps the best supportng acting in the film is down to Tillman, as a loud, blustery spirit who deteriorates dramatically during his brief lifespan, followed (in order) by a manifestly suffering McKellen, Grint with his tender heart and wounded pride (I particularly liked the moment when he thought the reformed Scrooge was pushing charity on him), and Ridley's involuntary laugh upon hearing Scrooge apologize to his nephew. Another moment that struck me was when Fred slammed his hand down on the dinner table, shocking everyone at Christmas dinner, only to say he'd remembered what he had meant to say.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Here are the Three Scenes That Made It For Me: (1) Scrooge watches his younger self break up with Belle, the girl he loved when he was a mere apprentice, and for the first time he openly expresses his regret. (2) The reformed Scrooge recognizes the man who, according to the future shown him by the last ghost, was plotting to defraud his estate, and can't resist pelting him with a snowball. (3) The first ghost's "sucked down into his bed" mode of transporting Scrooge to Christmas Past, a callback (I think) to the fate of Depp's character in his film debut, A Nightmare on Elm Street.

So yeah, this is totally a horror-movie take on A Christmas Carol. I mean, if you want Muppets, or Bill Murray's comedy stylings, or Shakespearean company-caliber acting, or a Hallmark Channel romantic comedy refresh, you can find those versions quite easily. I can even tell you where, in a few weeks, you can catch a live performance of a two-man, plus audience participation, semi-improvised version of Dickens' story. What Scrooge followers won't stumble across every day is a really chilling, bone-rattling, deep, dark, yet also emotionally powerful, scary interpretation. And now, here it is.

615. Beati quorum

This is a paraphrase of Psalm 32, a Maskil by David. The word Maskil, found in the titles of 13 psalms, is said to mean either contemplative, instructional or skillful. I've decided to paraphrase all of them under the heading of "meditation psalms." Unlike the Songs of Ascents, or "pilgrimage hymns" (Pss. 120-134), the Maskils are not clustered together in one tight spot, though there are two pairs of adjacent ones and one group of four in a row. Also, as it happens, I've already paraphrased one of them: Psalm 44.

Only one other comment before I begin: I think this is going to be a more ambitious project than the 14 Songs of Ascents, which are mostly quite brief, whereas the Maskils are on average a bit longer, some of them quite lengthy. So, condensing may well be a big part of the job. For the tune, I'm feeling HERZLIEBSTER JESU by Johann Crüger, 1648 ("O dearest Jesus, what law hast Thou broken"). Art: King David playing the harp, by Gerard van Honthorst (†1656), public domain.

Blest is the man whose misdeed is acquitted,
Whose sin is covered and his debt remitted:
Guiltless and guileless does the Lord account him,
Though snares surround him.

When I kept silent, Lord, my body wasted:
All day I roared, and bile by night I tasted.
Under Your hand I languished and lamented,
Till I repented.

Then all my guilt to You, Lord, I admitted:
I said, "I will confess what I've committed."
I did not hide the sins that did enslave me—
And You forgave me.

Now let the godly turn in time and seek You,
This hour of favor, and in prayer bespeak You:
Though floods of water rise up all around him,
They shall not drown him.

My hiding place from all that would confound me,
With shouts of preservation You surround me:
Teach me, O Lord, to walk, in You confiding,
In Your way guiding!

Be not like asses, mindless in their braying,
Who must by bit and goad be kept from straying.
Woe to the wicked, from His hand recoiling,
In sorrow toiling!

But he whose cry to God with trust has sounded
Shall walk secure, with benefits surrounded.
Be glad in Him, you righteous, with rejoicing,
His praises voicing!

A Symphony of Echoes

A Symphony of Echoes
by Jodi Taylor
Recommended Ages: 14+

Dr. Madeline Maxwell, a.k.a. Max, has risen to chief operations officer at St. Mary's Institute of Historical Research – an outfit that not only studies history, but defends it from evildoers intent on destroying it. And I'm not just talking about the written accounts of history, or the evidence beneath them, but the actual fabric of history itself. See, these folks are time travelers. And unfortunately, they're not the only ones.

In this second installment in the Chronicles of St. Mary's, Max and friends face deadly peril, and at times are deadly peril, while studying at bare-eyeball distance such historical events as Jack the Ripper's last confirmed murder, the assassinations of Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral and Sennacherib amid the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh(!), and one event on which all historical continuity strangely hinges – a turning point in the reign and romantic life of Mary Queen of Scots. And the historians, technicians, security personnel and all the rest have their hands full, not only ensuring that these events go off without a hitch but also getting away with their skins intact and the timeline uncontaminated. And they're not at all helped in this by the fact that the dastardly Clive Ronan, with time pods of his own, is hell-bent on changing the course of history.

Besides Ronan's efforts to meddle with the past, other mysteriously connected plots are afoot. One of them has to do with a "lost" play by Shakespeare, which has an historically impossible plot twist. There's also an episode involving a luxury psychiatric clinic for the rich and famous, where the leading doctor plies his considerable talent for suggestion on both Max and her beloved Leon Farrell. But the damage he does is nothing compared to the ruin Max and the St. Marys find in the future, where (I mean when) Ronan and his goons have pressed a direct attack on their institute. All this, between the bloodcurdling thing Max and her retiring pal Kal bring back from 1888 Whitechapel and the horrible thing Max has to do to in 1567 Edinburgh, dramatizes the cost of being a time-traveling historian devoted to preserving history as it is.

You'd like it to be a walk in the park, but it turns out to be Jurassic Park. Sure, there's wit and humor in this story, and a certain sexiness as well. But it's also, and mainly, a suspenseful, thrilling and often dangerous business, fraught with heartbreaking tragedy, near-tragedy, pain and even gut-deep horror. Horror at what you might have to do and live with afterwards. Horror at the unknown and unexplainable. Horror at the darkness that lies within people throughout time. And the bone-chilling horror of realizing that Jodi Taylor has written at least one novel, A Bachelor Establishment, under the same pseudonym as a character she, and I mean Max, shoots dead in this book. Max is not a woman to cross, make no mistake.

I think in my review of Just One Damned Thing After Another I mentioned other series of books Taylor has written. This series, meanwhile, goes on in such titles as A Second Chance (incongruously, the third novel), A Trail Through Time, No Time Like the Past, What Could Possibly Go Wrong, and going on nine more novels, plus a scattering of short stories and novellas. The 15th novel, Well, That Could Have Gone Better, is supposed to come out a little less than a year from now, as I write this. And my local library system doesn't have any of the books after this one. Oh, Max. You're going to cost me dearly.