Rest in Peace Fr. Chrysogonus

After not being at Mass at Gethsemni since the first Sunday of November, I had a feeling last night it was time to go there today. While I was there, Brother Luke walked up and made sign language to Fr. Elias, just before communion. Elias was visibily moved but went on with Mass. Just before the dismissal he announced the Fr. Chrysogonus had died.

I am at a loss for words except to say that the world, the Abbey, the OCSO, all of church music, and the Church itself, lost today one of its most gifted, and beloved figures. My life was changed by hearing how he had adapted the chant of the 12th century to the needs of the 20th. At the age of 18 I heard him play and never forgot his powerful improvisational skills. I hope and pray that anyone who has recorded anything he improvised will transcribe it, collect it and publish it, for he was one of a kind.

A loving man, a gifted man, and a man of God. A Trappist who did not die on St. Cecelia's day, or St. Chrysogonus day, tomorrow, instead he Christ the King came for our Fr. Chrysogonus. So, I offer what John Dryden offered on the death of his friend Henry Purcell.

An Ode, On the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell
( Late Servant to his Majesty, Organist of the Chapel Royal

I

Mark how the Lark and Linnet Sing,
With rival Notes
They strain their warbling Throats,
To welcome in the Spring.
But in the close of Night,
When Philomel begins her Heav'nly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her Music with delight,
And list'ning and silent, and silent and list'ning,
And list'ning and silent obey.

II

So ceas'd the rival Crew when Purcell came,
They Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame.
Struck dumb they all admir'd the God-like Man,
The God-like Man,
Alas, too soon retir'd,
As He too late began.
We beg not Hell, our Orpheus to restore,
Had He been there,
Their Sovereign's fear
Had sent Him back before.
The pow'r of Harmony too well they know,
He long e'er this had Tun'd their jarring Sphere,
And left no Hell below.

III

The Heav'nly Choir, who heard his Notes from high,
Let down the Scale of Music from the Sky:
They handed him along,
And all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung.
Ye Brethren of the Lyre, and tuneful Voice,
Lament his Lot: but at your own rejoice.
Now live secure and linger out your days,
The Gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's Lays,
Nor know to mend their Choice.

John Dryden