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.


No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.