THERE IS JUST one hymn left to practise. But already every member knows every note, every breath between, each rise and fall. Pastor Simon stands to conduct, but the choir is already singing. Most have their eyes closed; all of them are swaying.
‘Farewell, dear friends, a long farewell,
Since we shall meet no more,
Till we shall rise with thee to dwell
On heaven’s blissful shore.
We will meet you in the morning,
Where the shadows pass away;
We will meet, we will meet,
Where all tears are wiped away.
Our friend and brothers, lo! are dead,
Their cold and lifeless clay
Has made in dust its silent bed,
And there it must decay.’
A giant of a man steps forward, his arms wrapped around himself for comfort, for support. He has been crying but, eyes screwed tightly shut, he is determined to lead the last verse.
‘Farewell, dear friends, again farewell;
Soon we shall rise to thee,
On wings of love our stars will cross
Through all eternity.’
There is a moment’s silence, a beat’s pause as the final note dies. At first, no one moves. Then, as if emerging from a trance, the choir disperses, some of them still humming the melody as they clatter down the stone steps and wander out into the April rain.