And God created singing.

When we’re in love, we sing!

Amazing grace—how sweet the sound—
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind but now I see.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear

God’s saving presence. May we think of it as grace, not in terms of revelation. May we think of it as an action of God, not a statement?

Amazing grace—how sweet the sound. Does that mean that “grace” has a sound? I take it that it does. But then, what is the nature of the sound? Is it the sound of the words “amazing grace”? Is it the sound of the song that we are singing? Or, does grace itself have a sound?

Amazing grace—how sweet the sound—
That saved this wretch from fear!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was deaf but now I hear.

If it is grace I hear, I must hear also the saving presence of God, for that is the nature of grace. Listen.

If God is omnipresent—accept that God is omnipresent just for a moment—then will God not be omnipresent for reconciliation, salvation? If we just “cock an ear,” the ear that God has touched with the sound of grace, we shall hear.

And then?

I once was lost, but now am found,
Was deaf but now I hear.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to sing

What do we do when we hear a tune, one that catches our ear? We begin to sing along with it. Our hearts also catch the song and repeat it. See—or listen to—Wordsworth’s “The Solitary Reaper,” not my favorite, but you'll get the point:

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Not that you should use Wordsworth to make a point. But, there it is.