I am an atheist. There is no god. I’m sure of that, as sure as I can be. I want to make that completely clear.
Still, this one makes me oogy-soft-warm-fuzzy.
I remember hearing this as a child and being deeply moved by it. I didn’t really grasp the references, but the music incised me and left its mark forever.
Unlike the current cult of hate-fanatics being raised to die or kill for a god that is not there, the children of the 1970s had a sense that god, if he existed, might not even be a he; and that was okay; as long as we could run through the fields and roll in the grass, as long as Mom and Dad loved us, we were doing all right.
It’s so beautiful, this song. It’s unabashedly worshipful; and yet, I love it so. It reminds me of summer in Nebraska, of my mom, young and pretty, smiling at me; it reminds me of endless seasons of bottomless, innocent love.
How sad I was then, only five and just starting to taste life, to think that people might die; how terrible it seemed to me that anyone could ever end. Never to see a fragrant summer’s day again. Never to wonder at the rain. Never again to hear Mom say, I love you.
Morning has broken like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
like the first dewfall on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
sprung in completeness where His feet pass.
Mine is the sunlight; mine is the morning.
Born of the one light, Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning.
God’s recreation of the new day.
This song is, I think, one of the most lovely things I have ever heard in the English canon.
This song was sung, according to the US government, by a terrorist.
We’re trying to kill these people. We’re trying to kill Muslims. We’re trying to kill the people who do things like this song.
Well, what the fuck — they’re just a bunch of ragheads, right? So who cares?
We’re trying to kill them, we are killing them, and it is wrong, and it must stop. Even if it means we’re the losers.
We must stop.