Hymn 339

Lord You Are Beloved

Hymn 513

Good Samaritan

Praise the Lord, We're in the Lord's Recovery (1256)

Oh, the Church of Christ is Glorious (1226)

Scene 3 from the cycle Chains of Sorrow.
The Footbridge is written in a Neo-Classical / Modern Classical style — a hybrid of traditional aria form with contemporary textures. Rather than staged opera, it functions as a concert aria, blending baritone solo and male chorus with chamber ensemble (strings, harp, winds, and subtle percussion).

The piece explores a moment of suspended recognition: the awareness that choices must be made, though clarity never arrives. The baritone voice carries self-questioning phrases, answered and expanded by the chorus, while the orchestration shifts between hushed reflection and urgent surges.

Not tragic but reflective, the music dwells in ambiguity, carrying the listener into the tension between doubt and resilience.

[LYRICS]

Dark were the days of deep despair,
White were the nights of solace rare;
I stood where shadows veil the air,
And sorrow’s weight consumed me there.

I stand between two roads of old,
Each with promise, bright and bold;
The bridge beneath bears not a name,
Yet none who cross return the same.

No guide remains, no hand to lead,
The heart must guard its quiet need;
For choices cut and choices bind,
But silence cuts the deepest kind.

The vessel empties, poured out free;
The stream runs dry, cut from its source.
To walk this path, I must be still;
To bear the weight, I keep my course.

What heart can give when thirsts in vain?
What hand can heal when bound by pain?
I drink from silence, breathe like tide,
That I may stand where paths divide.

The vessel empties, poured out free;
The stream runs dry, cut from its source.
To walk this path, I must be steady;
To bear the weight, I keep my course.

The vessel must fill ere it pour,
The root must drink to bloom once more.

The vessel must fill ere it pour,
The root must drink to bloom once more.

The fog awaits with quiet hand,
To test the path, to mark the stand.

I crossed the bridge, then turned around,
Unsure which side was truly mine;
The fog then curled and closed around,
And blurred each boundary line.

I crossed the bridge, then turned again,
Unsure which side was ever mine;
The fog then veiled the path I trod,
And blurred all boundary lines.

The rail was cold beneath my hand,
As the river rolled dark below;
Its voice was low, a mournful strand,
And echoed what I’ve come to know.

The rail was cold beneath my hand,
As the river rolled dark below;
Its voice was low, yet deeper still,
And echoed what I’ve come to know.

Not every road is meant to show
Its ending from the very start;
But fog is kind to those who wait
And listen with a faithful heart.

A bell rang, time drawn in to full,
A boat slipped slowly out of view;
I felt the moment strain and pull,
Yet still I never truly knew.

Two sides, two lives, both calling out,
Yet neither one could give me peace.
The bridge became a place of doubt,
Where second thoughts find no release.

Not every road is meant to show
Its ending from the very start;
But fog is kind to those who wait
And listen with a faithful heart.

Some choices bloom like morning light,
While others drift like distant mist.
The wiser path is rarely bright,
Yet still a truer way will persist.

Not every road is meant to show
Its ending from the start.

But still I crossed that bridge again,
And followed what I knew was right;
And doubt itself can lead us home—
Yes, at the last, it leads us home.

The self must feed, the self must grow,
Or none may walk where choices go.
For silence guides and silence shows,
The strength that every spirit owes.

The self must feed, the self must grow,
Or none may walk where choices go.


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