in the garden

I went to work at five this morning so I could leave early to get to a funeral. A dear soul in our church, Bryant, who was, as his son said, both a gentle man and a gentleman died last Friday. Ginger said the family had asked for someone to sing “In the Garden,” which I was happy to do. Growing up Baptist meant growing up with that song and, for most of my early life, I thought it was kind of schmaltzy until William Reynolds, the guy who knows more about hymns than anyone I know, explained who is really singing the words: Mary Magdelene (john 20:15). This is an Easter hymn imagining what it must have been like for Mary meeting Jesus in the garden where she had gone to anoint his dead body only to find he was alive.

I come to the garden alone
while the dew is still on the roses
and the voice I hear falling on my ear
the Son of God discloses

and he walks with me and he talks with me
and he tells me I am his own
and the joy we share as we tarry there
none other has ever known

he speaks and the sound of his voice
is so sweet the birds hush their singing
and the melody that he gave to me
within my heart is ringing

and he walks with me and he talks with me
and he tells me I am his own
and the joy we share as we tarry there
none other has ever known

I’ll stay in the garden with him
though the night around me is falling
but he bids me go with a voice of woe
his voice to me is calling

and he walks with me and he talks with me
and he tells me I am his own
and the joy we share as we tarry there
none other has ever known

C. Austin Miles, who wrote the hymn, spoke of his inspiration this way:

I read the story of the greatest morn in history. The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, while it was yet very dark, unto the sepulcher. Instantly, completely, there unfolded in my mind the scenes of the garden, where out of the mists comes a form, halting, hesitating, tearful, seeking, turning from side to side in bewildering amazement. Falteringly, bearing grief in every accent, with tear-dimmed eyes, she whispers, 'If Thou has borne Him hence.' He speaks, and the sound of His voice is so sweet the birds hush their singing. He said to her, "Mary!" "Just one word and forgotten are the heartaches, the long dreary hours, all the past blotted out in His presence.

I also found this video of Dwight Yoakum singing the hymn at the funeral of his friend and mentor, Buck Owens.



I guess I had never really thought about it as a funeral hymn, other than singing it because it was a favorite of the person we were memorializing. But tonight I find comfort in it’s poetry and melody, thinking of Mary finding Jesus in her grief and hoping for the same kind of encounter for friends I know who are grieving tonight.

Peace,
Milton