Hymns from a Hospital Room

HYMNS FROM A HOSPITAL ROOMhymns from a

hospital room

for prayerfor praise

�ese ordinary melodies and re�ections were composed in the year 2018, penciled onto manuscript paper during the long hours spent within waiting rooms and the intensive care units of multiple hospitals. �ey are printed here for someone else, in another year, and in another hospital to have a song to sing.

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May God be gra

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Copyright © 2018 JasonDyba.com

May God be gra

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PSALM 67:1

Jason Dyba

PSALM #67:1

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Alternate verses:

ough doubt be a thunder

and faith but a whisper

let it be faith enough for me.

[repeat]

As quick as I falter

Spirit, bring water

and surely my cup will over�ow.

[repeat]

Behind and before me

ever surrounding

the cross be the center of my life.

[repeat]

And let us be certain

our God is working

all things for His glory and our good.

[repeat]

We welcome You, Jesus

come in and heal us

we pray in the power of Your name.

[repeat]

O Wonderful Maker

Beautiful Savior

O come make Your face to shine on us.

[repeat]

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Copyright © 2018 Jason Dyba

Jesus, in the sun and moonJesus, in the hospital roomJesus, in the first communionJesus, in the long reunionJesus, in the all aloneJesus, in I’m-coming-homeJesus, in the greatest testJesus, in a baby’s breath.

Jesus, in the summer daysJesus, in the just okayJesus, in the sleepless hoursJesus, in the falling towersJesus, in the speechless voidJesus, in the tearful joyJesus, in I’ve-nothing-leftJesus, in the final breath.

Jesus, in the bane and tollJesus, in the no-controlJesus, in the never plannedJesus, in the doctor’s handJesus, in a constant friendJesus, in the start againJesus, in the sit and restJesus, in my every breath.

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EVEN THOUGH I WILL

EVEN THOUGH // I WILL

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Jesus, in the sun and moonJesus, in the hospital roomJesus, in the first communionJesus, in the long reunionJesus, in the all aloneJesus, in I’m-coming-homeJesus, in the greatest testJesus, in a baby’s breath.

Jesus, in the summer daysJesus, in the just okayJesus, in the sleepless hoursJesus, in the falling towersJesus, in the speechless voidJesus, in the tearful joyJesus, in I’ve-nothing-leftJesus, in the final breath.

Jesus, in the bane and tollJesus, in the no-controlJesus, in the never plannedJesus, in the doctor’s handJesus, in a constant friendJesus, in the start againJesus, in the sit and restJesus, in my every breath.

I NEED YOUi�need�you

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At 4:11 the baby arrived, quiet and listless — ten hopelessly tiny �ngers dangling in the sterilized space, Lilliputian shoulders sinking into the sky blue latex of the doctor’s left hand, and without music. A nurse leaned over, lips pursed with question. �e door was closed. A miniature oxygen mask rested on a stainless steel cart nearby, its thin plastic tubing pooling up beside it, awaiting its chance to kiss the mouth of the child – the child who had come early, too early, unexpectedly early, urgently early. In view of the human frame, the hospital room paused the way an acrobat pauses at the height of her routine, in the air, in the space between swings, between safety, between the collective breath of everyone under the tent, the circus gone silent. No movement, no sound. Just one day earlier, the still-pregnant mother had skimmed through an electronic article about the viability of her unborn child at its current gestational age. It began with a celebratory line that read, "your child might survive if it was born today!” �e blogger had composed it with pure intentions. Nonetheless, the mother had read it unaware that the piece (with its purply, suburban your-baby-is-now-the-size-of-a-Japanese-eggplant heading) was actually an omen — and now, in the delivery room, almost 3 months before the due date, its bouncy “your child might survive if it was born today!” announcement felt woefully indecisive, if not sinister — “might survive”? All the clocks were asleep. �e next few seconds took an hour to pass. Every torso began bending towards the foot of the bed, as if the two-pound newborn were a celestial body with its own unique gravitational pull, compelling the mooning hearts to draw closer and take notice. Even the walls were curious, leaning in… and the room became small. To the untrained ear, the timbre of a hospital can be unnerving: the urgency of rubber-wheeled beds racing, high-pitched pulses from heartbeats and heart attacks, the foreign chatter of neosynepherine-add-dobutamine-patent-ductus-arteriosis-metastic-site-acetabular-fracture and the more familiar phrases we-can't-proceed-until… we’ll-have-to-wait-until… we-won’t-know-until… the hum of alarming mechanics, oscillators, compressors,

resident, tambourines ringing, bells tolling — a holy cry that carried with it the light of its Maker, drawing back the curtains and pouring out into the world through all the glass panes, a siren, soaring, a single wailing cry of possibility and innocence, renaissance, future, bliss, beginning — out the windows, through the cracks, tearing down the buckling-blacktop streets, awakening old men on their porches, on stoops, waking them up with the sound of raw and original youth, that perpetual miracle of a soul arriving in the open air, in the image of Elohim, the invention of wonder, the incomprehensible inception of consciousness and character and creativity, like Tito Puente’s �rst strike of the timbales, like MJ’s �rst dribble, like Jane Austen’s �rst story, like the natural harmonics of a string, like a forest awakening from winter, like 3.14159265359 and the way some things were written down long before they existed, like August dusk, like a Seussian heart growing 3 sizes that day, like the thick mist of a river careening over the cli¡s above, like music, like even God had teared up while writing it down, like walking down the aisle, like opening a package that you weren’t expecting and �nding within it the truest form of happiness; one perfect, piercing cry from a baby’s mouth, that song from the Creator, whose lyrics echo again and again: "Life is come! Life is come! Life, it's come!"

endless palliative repetitions, chemicals, drips, brightly-labeled gases pushing through tanks and tubes into noses and necks, every sudden unanticipated movement by the sta¡, by the monitor, by the laboring chest, and the muted epidemic of inquiries why-this? why-God? why-me? Every hospital conversation seems inappropriately loud or uncomfortably hush. None of the volumes are correct. Caring, concerned aunts and co-workers wade through the long corridors, the labyrinth of swishing magnetically-unlocking automated double doorways and alternating currents of shift-changing medical workers. �ere is laughter and un�ltered squeals, too, which only serves to exasperate those already bearing an extremity of emotion. But even these are much preferred to that one dreaded tone: the sound of nothingness – the absent song, the end of conversation, the after-goodbye, the empty sheets. Silence has long been the most unnerving sound of all because it is the sound of the dead. A light ¥ickered, then dimmed. Clamping one of the red, translucent feet between his thumb and index �nger, the doctor peered at the humble form – shuttered eyelids the breadth of rain drops – hoping that a �rm stimulation might provoke the little mouth to gasp. �e mother wished to weep. So did the angels. But there was no time. Before the terrible grief could be realized on the earth, the heavens interrupted. �ere, in the pale room, God breathed and the lungs of the child ballooned into motion. �e fragile lips parted and out came a solitary cry – a cry that swam through the air, sweeping around the doctor's uncombed hair, a gold-and-purple whimper that began like a muted cello and then swelled into a brassy dawning, a windstorm arrival, a dream crashing into the eardrums of the nurses, wrapping around the mother's bosom in its �rst embrace, assuring her, prompting her to glance at the clocks on the wall and see the little hands still ticking and the future still coming; it was a cry that rang and rose until the delivery ward was ¥ooded with its shrill celebration, soaking into the ¥oors, the cabinets, seeping underneath the doorway, down the ¥uorescent-lit hallways, kicking o¡ the walls, rushing recklessly around the corners, a headlong cry running with its eyes closed, ¥inging open the doors of every bedridden patient and unsuspecting

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THE INVENTION OF WONDER

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THERE'S A RIVER COMING

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Your name is a stone amidst the sands of history –eras begin only to end,but You've watched over every pauper, prince, president, populace and person who will gasp, breathingrising, receding, wanting, needing,hoping, hiding, pressing, promising, lying,and the tax on our rebellious human estate: dying. But God, the persistent Fatherthat good grave robber whose steals us back in the night, takes the keys, breaks the lock — You amassed all the hours, the years of our regrets…and then You shattered all the clocks. �e full payment, the �nal payment, the �nal verdict, the last word, the “it was very good” breathing “it is �nished”,the whisper heard around the world. O Your love — the Mercy Storm — that furious derecho of compassiondownpour, drowning enmity and entropyrevealing hope beneath the ashes.On a Sunday,swallowing darkness and reigniting light — Your rising was our wakingblurring seizing sudden resuscitated life. �e highest hallmark of the human chronicle:EmmanuelGod with usGod with meGod in the mundane and the miraclesGod in the before, the after, and the right now: the in-between the Interminable in our temporarythe Cornerstone in our commuteWonderful in our wanderingHoliness in the hospital roomvast and far beyond our knowingbut close enough to hear our sigh:You are God of Salvation and God of the Bedside.

Heaven is the hue of You —a satisfying perfection, a perfect satisfaction,the unabated luminescence of love and its innumerable refractions.Gold rests on Your brow where once pierced the thorns. You arise and a symphony is bornin heaven and on earth and under the earth,horns on the cli�s, pulsing seas around the archipelago, a million angels bow, a billion cellists bow –the grand motif of righteousness and the counterpoint of mercy,with a refrain that haunts the enemy:“the Lamb! the Lamb is worthy!"But here You are, the Crownkneeling down beside me:this room for the mortal now for the majesty. �e Subject of seraphic anthems, in these muted prayers You reside:You are both God of Heavenand God of the Bedside.

�e centuries are drops on Your canvas,burgeoning universes await Your brush. In 6 daysYou furnished our home with prismatic springs and emerald landscapes.(why not 6 minutes? 6 seconds? were You teaching us not to rush?)Magellanic Clouds and constellations follow Your commandall things held togetherlight bending beneath the gravity of Your pen — the enigmatic Author speaks and His wildest enigma is disclosed:He cares. He knows. the Foremost, the FriendComposer, Companion collide:You are God of Creation and God of the Bedside.

GOD OF THE BEDSIDEgod�of�the�bedside

Peace,

C

be still,

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be calm

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- thy will;

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sleep

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now and

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rest

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in Je

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sus.

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-


He

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is nigh

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by day,

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by night,

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sing

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ing- His

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mer

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cies- o'er

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us.

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Sea

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sons- change,

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our hearts

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do wane

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but He

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ne

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ver

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- breaks

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His pro

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mise.

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-

Don't

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be

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haste,

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to mor

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- row- can

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wait;

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sleep

F

now and rest

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in

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Je

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sus.

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-

34&

SLEEP NOW AND

REST IN JESUS

Jason Dyba

SLEEP NOW AND

REST IN JESUS

&

&

&

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˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ ™ œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ ™ ˙ ™

Roman Thomas Dyba16:11 19 May 2018

2 lbs 12.4 oz16.14”

Hymns from a Hospital Room

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