NOT A ROSE GARDEN...

As I write this, some really challenging things are happening among those I care about, keeping me prayer-aware throughout the day. The other day as I prayed, a surprising thought came via recalling a country singer's pop-song, “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden.” Released as a “single” in 1970, it soon became a "hit."

This rose, surrounded by "lifted-up" blooms
to come, reminded me of Jesus' prediction of His
 death, being "lifted up" upon a cross.

Though the pop song's title and snatches of its tune came to mind, those were soon replaced my trying to imagine Jesus' last night in the Garden of Gethsemane. It wasn't a lovely rose-garden stroll, but a thorny and anguishing prayer-time with His Father, knowing He would face horrific abuse and death. Hardly an hour before, sharing the memorial supper for the Passover with His disciples, He'd said:

“I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble, but take heart, I have overcome the world.”(John 16:33 NIV)

Yes, I have a rose garden at my home. When I tend it, snipping off dead blooms and watching for aphids, I think of the analogy of “trouble”--although my rose-care analogy doesn't begin to revere the spiritual agony that Gethsemane poured out on Jesus. Sometimes I recall the liturgical church of my childhood, built in the traditional “cross” layout with visual emphasis on the altar and a cross hung above it. The sanctuary cross was artfully built, sanded, painted--not splintered wood and blood-stained, as were those of Jesus' time, used as an execution method. But the ancient, stark symbol of death was there amid the church's flowers, pews, pulpits, and musical instruments.

Decades later, attending a friend's funeral, I entered a huge sanctuary of a church that has another long liturgical history. As I started down the aisle, I paused briefly as I saw a behind-the-altar, life-size sculpture representing Jesus. It wasn't “just Jesus” with His hands outstretched, like I envision Him welcoming the children to Himself. Instead, this image was a mortally wounded man, cross-impaled, head bent down, thorn-crowned, with red paint for blood coming from the wounds in his head, hands, feet, and side. You can be sure I didn't think of the country singer's “rose garden.” Instead, it was Isaac Watts' 1707 hymn, “Alas, and Did My Savior Bleed” https://hymnary.org/media/fetch/137189.

My briefly-blooming roses also remind me of another flower called “Rose-of-Sharon.” Contrary to its name, it's not a traditional rose, but a member of the hibiscus family. One of its features is its ability to produce big, colorful flowers in late summer, when the heat has exhausted most other garden plants. There's a message here, too, I think, out of the apostle Paul's prayer-wrestling with his disability (“thorn in the flesh"), which some scholars surmise might have included poor vision. Whatever it was, it made his strenuous, often dangerous ministry hard. God's answer to Paul was this: “My strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

I don't know about you...but I needed that message. To stay strong. To keep blooming for HIM, who shed His blood for me.

GOOD FRIDAY'S 'ALAS!'

The man who wrote the classic 18^th century Good Friday hymn, “Alas! And Did My Savior Bleed,” was well-acquainted with rejection himself. His rejection, however, was from a woman's withdrawn love, not necessarily from his contemporaries. In fact, Isaac Watts (1674-1748) was what we'd today call a genius, a prolific and popular hymn writer (credited with some 750 hymns) and essayist.

Quickly, the backstory on his life. He was born in 1674 in Southampton, England, in a time of religious controversy. His father's dissenting views with the state church led twice to imprisonment. Biographers tell of Isaac's mother nursing baby Isaac as she sat outside the prison near his father's cell window.

As Watts grew, his genius unfolded. Even in early childhood he had a knack for rhyme which both amused and frustrated his parents. When scolded for keeping his eyes open during prayers, he replied: “A little mouse for want of stairs, ran up a rope to say its prayers.” Even after a spanking for his rhyming habit, he replied, “O father, father, pity take/And I will no more verses make.”

Because his family's theological stance was “non-conformist,” he couldn't attend the Anglican-restricted universities of Oxford or Cambridge, but instead was educated at the “Dissenting Academy.” He pastored a large independent chapel a few years, but poor health forced him to quit. Instead, he worked as a private tutor, eventually becoming a permanent resident at one of his clients' estate.

His prolific writing output included many books about the Bible, theology, logic and other topics. Add to that the huge output of hymns, including many still sung today: “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” “Joy to the World,” “O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” “Jesus Shall Reign Wherever the Son,” and today's feature, “Alas, and Did My Savior Bleed.”

He also wrote a book of songs that became the first hymnal ever published only for children. He loved children, but sadly never married or became a father. He did have a girlfriend, of sorts, a fan of his works whom he met by letter. When she finally traveled to meet him, she was put off by his less-than-handsome appearance. Small (five feet tall) and frail, he had a huge head and a long-hooked nose. Sadly, that ended her “crush” on him.

Frail in health, for his last thirty-plus years Watts lived with a nobleman friend (and later the friend's widow and daughter), never to know the centuries-long impacts of his hymn-writing. Notably, about 1850—a hundred years after Watts died—a 30-year-old blind woman went to a revival service in New York City. There, she heard a choir sing Watts' hymn, “Alas! And Did My Savior Bleed?” The hymn stirred her heart, especially the last line, “Here, Lord, I give my life away.” That day, she gave her life to Jesus. Her name: Fanny Crosby. Living to age 95, she would become the greatest gospel lyric composer of her time—by some sources, writing more than 8,000 hymns.