NeuroDivine

Hymn Reflection | Proper 10 (Year A)| Genesis 25:19–34 | Psalm 119:105–112 | Romans 8:1–11 | Matthew 13:1–9, 18–23

The same Scriptures can lead us down very different paths. This week’s lectionary readings inspired me to write two Irish hymns using the same landscape, birds, animals, and rivers—but each travels a different spiritual road.

When I looked at the rich, diverse textures of the Lectionary readings for this week—Genesis 25, Psalm 119, Romans 8, and Matthew 13—I saw a spiritual landscape filled with paths, seeds, whispering spirits, and defining choices. To interpret these ancient texts through the lens of the Irish landscape is to discover what our Celtic tradition calls “thin places”—moments where the boundary between the sacred and the everyday dissolves.

In writing these two hymns, I wanted to approach the exact same readings using a shared vocabulary of Irish flora and fauna, yet offer two profoundly distinct movements of the soul: one of vibrant movement along the waterways, and the other of monastic stillness within the soil.

On Erin’s roads Your mercy shines,
And steadies all our ways;
You guide our hearts through choice and change
And lead us into grace.

Your Word, a lamp through mist and rain,
Shapes every step we take;
It roots Your truth in fertile soil
Where faithful lives awake.

Where Spirit-winds blow wild and free,
No weight of sin remains;
An otter glides through Shannon’s tide—
A sign Your life sustains.

And kingfishers in sudden gleam
Flash blue along the weir;
As salmon leap through living light,
Your freedom draws us near.

Where seed falls deep in Irish earth
And hidden springs arise,
The wren and robin guard the hush
Where hope begins to rise.

And eels that twist through shadowed streams
Keep vigil in the gloam;
While herons stand in patient grace,
Your call invites us home.

Where tide meets river, seal and gull
Turn circles in the foam;
And gannets plunge through salt‑bright air
As dolphins guide us home.

Lead us in Erin’s cloistered calm,
Where dusk and silence stay;
Till all who seek Your guiding light
Find rest in You each day.

In Erin’s quiet, Lord, we seek
Your hidden mercy, soft and meek;
A whispered grace through Jacob’s peak.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Your Word, a lamp in drifting rain,
Moves through the glen like ancient strain,
And roots Your truth in heart and vein.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Where Spirit-breath through heather glides,
And fear dissolves in twilight tides,
A hare leaps free where peace abides.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

The fox that slips through fern and shade
Reveals the paths Your wisdom made;
The deer stands still in light You laid.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Where seed sinks deep in Irish ground,
And wren and robin guard the sound,
Your springs of wonder rise unbound.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Through dusk the badger’s patient tread,
The curlew’s cry by moorland spread—
Your stillness folds us, Spirit‑led.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

The skylark’s rise in morning air,
The raven’s watch in places rare,
Trace out Your mystic presence there.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

So keep us in Your cloistered night,
Where dusk becomes a thin‑place light,
And souls find rest in Your delight.
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

A Deeper Look: The Pilgrim’s Way vs The Cloistered Heart

Hymn 1: Movement, Freedom, and Living Light

My first hymn, written in a lilting, forward-moving common metre, captures the energy of an active pilgrimage. I envisioned a God who “steadies all our ways” through “choice and change”—a direct nod to the complex, pivoting narrative of Jacob and Esau in Genesis.

When I brought this hymn out of the Lectionary readings, I wanted to infuse it with brilliant vitality. The “lamp” of Psalm 119 guides us specifically through “mist and rain,” honouring the realities of our Irish climate as a metaphor for life’s uncertainties. The “fertile soil” of the Sower (Matthew 13) becomes a place where “faithful lives awake”—an active, awakening response to the Word.

Most strikingly, I chose to illustrate the theological peak of Romans 8—freedom from the weight of sin—through the wild, unfettered freedom of the coast. The Spirit blows “wild and free,” mirrored by an otter gliding through the Shannon, salmon leaping through “living light,” and gannets plunging through “salt-bright air.” The text reminds us that God’s grace is dynamic, calling us towards the edges of the world where the Spirit is already at work.

Hymn 2: Stillness, Shadow, and Resilient Praise

Where my first hymn flies and plunges, my second text draws inward, settling into a contemplative sanctuary within Ireland’s glens, heather, and woods. I wanted to view the Lectionary through a more interior, mystical lens. Rather than focusing only on the outward drama of Jacob’s choices, I sought a “whispered grace through Jacob’s peak,” sensing the decisive turning point from which the rest of his story unfolds and looking for the quiet mercy hidden within our own family lines. The Psalm’s lamp moves “like an ancient strain” through the glen, rooting God’s truth deeply into “heart and vein,” while the Sower’s seed sinks “deep in Irish ground,” guarded by the hush of the wren and robin.

The fauna I chose here—the patient badger, the cautious fox, the hidden raven, and the deer standing perfectly still—teach us the art of spiritual vigilance. This text finds its poetic anchor in the “cloistered night” and the “thin-place light” of dusk.

Musically, I intentionally paired this quiet, nocturnal text with the tune Gelobt sei Gott (most famously known for Good Christians All, Rejoice and Sing). I know it creates a fascinating, slightly odd juxtaposition at first glance. Rather than leaning into a heavy or sleepy somberness, I wanted this driving, syncopated German Baroque rhythm to act like a sudden flash of light in the woods. The soaring, threefold Alleluia at the end of each verse shatters the quiet, reminding us that even in the deeply hidden, silent places of life—where badgers tread and the curlew cries—God’s presence is an absolute, celebratory victory.

A Shared Horizon

Though one of my hymns travels the rushing Shannon to the sea and the other rests in the heathered glen, they arrive at the exact same destination: rest in God’s guiding light. Together, they remind us that the Word of God is wide enough to encompass both our active journeys and our deepest silences. Whether we are leaping like the salmon or waiting patiently like the heron, the same Spirit is leading us home.

Both hymns deliberately retain certain images—the lamp of God’s Word and truth taking root—because they spring from the same Scriptures even as they travel different poetic paths.

Perhaps that is one of the gifts of the Celtic imagination. The same Gospel can be heard in the rush of the river and in the silence of the glen, in the leap of the salmon and the stillness of the heron. Creation does not merely decorate the Scriptures; it becomes another language through which the Word continues to speak.

What do you think?

If you were choosing one of these hymns for worship this Sunday, which one would you want to sing with your community? The vibrant, moving journey of the first, or the quiet, meditative dusk of the second? Let me know in the comments below!

© 2026 Michael McFarland Campbell. Permission granted for local church use with attribution. Not for commercial reproduction without permission.