Angels from the realms of glory, Wing your flight o’er all the earth; Ye who sang creation’s story, Now proclaim Messiah’s birth. Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Shepherds in the field abiding, Watching o’er your flocks by night, God with man is now residing, Yonder shines the Infant Light. Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Sages, leave your contemplations; Brighter visions beam afar; Seek the great Desire of nations, Ye have seen His natal star. Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Saints before the altar bending, Watching long in hope and fear, Suddenly the Lord, descending, In His temple shall appear. Though an Infant now we view Him, He shall fill His Father’s throne; Gather all the nations to Him, Every knee shall then bow down. Gloria in excelsis Deo!
J. S. Bach had a little problem. J. S. Bach was in a fix. J. S. Bach couldn’t find an answer.
What to do? I’ve written most of a rather fabulous work! Toccata, it’s in D minor, but now I’m feeling a bit of a jerk. I can’t think of what should come after it. Now, said his wife, who was resting up after her 33rd child, Johann, my dear, you should just go to bed. Something always comes up. Don’t be a twit! It’s a real crisis and I’m working to a deadline. What can I fit? What to fit after the great toccata? Maybe it needs to be something faster. I haven’t got a clue and in a week the piece is due! I’m in a panic! I’m stuck like glue! Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Johann.
Those are only notes, you’ve always said. There’s only twelve so use your head! How many arrangements of twelve notes can there possibly be? That’s a problem I don’t want to deal with. How many permutations on C and D and E and F and G, A, B is a thing that I never heard of. You can leave that to Arnold Schönberg — he is the person to do that twelve-tone thing. No! No! It isn’t the answer. I haven’t the foggiest. What am I gonna do? I’m all in a panic! Aaah, no! What can I do?
I’ve finished my toccata but I have no fugue! (Phone ringing) Ah… and now I’ve got the fugue!
Some say love it is a river That drowns the tender reed; Some say love it is a razor That leaves your soul to bleed; Some say love it is a hunger An endless aching need; I say love it is a flower, And you its only seed.
It’s the heart afraid of breaking That never learns to dance; It’s the dream afraid of waking That never takes the chance; It’s the one who won’t be taken Who cannot seem to give; And the soul afraid of dying That never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely, And the road has been too long, And you think that love is only For the lucky and the strong; Just remember in the winter, Far beneath the bitter snows, Lies the seed that with the sun’s love In the spring becomes the rose.