Special music for each service of the lectionary year, with brief notes on how each piece connects to the theme of the day. Some titles link to reference recordings; ★ marks feasts and festivals.
Today's readings pose the uncomfortable question of what we truly own. Amos names the silent shame of crooked scales; Jesus, in a parable about a shrewd steward, asks whether the same cleverness we spend on our own security might be turned toward the freedom of others. We come to the table not as proprietors but as those entrusted with gifts already given.
This morning's prelude echoes today's call to choose God over wealth. It reminds us that everything we have is God's gift; we bring our gifts with open hands and trust God to give what we need.
Breathe (Marie Barnett, arr. Derek Hakes) invites us to receive God's life as our daily breath, allowing us to loosen our grip on hurry and worry, so we can live simply, pray widely, and give gladly.
Amos warns the comfortable; Jesus tells of a rich man who never quite notices the beggar at his gate. The gospel's pointed silence is that the neighbor we overlook is already known — by name — to God. Gathered here, we pray for the eyes to see whom Christ has placed in our path.
Put Peace into Each Other's Hands (Fred Kaan, arr. David W. Music), set to the Celtic tune St. Columba (“The King of Love My Shepherd Is"), invites us to handle peace like a candle and share it like bread—looking one another in the eye and caring for the neighbor at our gate.
Habakkuk asks the question we all ask sooner or later — how long, O Lord? Jesus answers obliquely: a mustard-seed's worth of faith is enough. Whatever measure we bring today, it is received, nourished at font and table, and sent back out with room to grow.
Today's prelude, composed by Wendell Kimbrough, sings Psalm 37's counsel—be still, dwell in the land, commit your way—moving us from frustration to patient trust in the Lord.
One Tiny Seed (Angie Killian & Lauren Gruwell), offered by our Youth Choir, celebrates how a mustard-seed of faith becomes a sturdy, fruit-bearing tree as we nurture one another in Christ.
Mustard Seed (Ellie Holcomb / Rain for Roots) sends us out trusting that even faith as small as a seed can move mountains—go in courage, watching for what God will grow.
Naaman dips seven times in the Jordan and is made whole. Ten lepers are cleansed on the road, and one turns back to say thank you. The waters still heal; the bread still mends; the question each Sunday is whether we, too, will turn and give thanks.
Our Handbell Choir, joined by flutist Heather Doyle, offers Now Thank We All Our God (arr. Anna Laura Page) on a Sunday of healing and gratitude, it gathers us to say “thank you” with our whole heart.
I Have Decided (arr. Dennis Robert) is a gentle testimony of discipleship—returning to Jesus in grateful trust and offering our lives along with our gifts.
Jacob wrestles through the night and limps away blessed. A widow refuses to stop knocking until justice is done. The life of prayer is not quiet resignation but this stubborn, hopeful wrestling — kept awake by the promise that our persistence is already met by God's faithfulness.
Kyrie by Richard Cootes is a steady, sung prayer for mercy that mirrors today's call to “pray always and not lose heart,” entrusting our need to the Keeper of Israel (Psalm 121:4).
Down to the River to Pray with Lord, Listen to Your Children Praying (arr. Mary McDonald) gathers our persistent petitions as we bring our gifts—asking the Father's love, the Spirit's power, and Jesus' grace to guide the church.
Reformation Sunday is not a victory parade for any one tradition — it is a yearly reminder that the church is ever being re-made by the grace it did nothing to deserve. Jeremiah promises a covenant written on the heart; Jesus promises that the truth itself will set us free. We pray today for a church still learning to live that freedom.
On this Reformation Sunday, the choir sings The Truth Will Make You Free (Anne Krentz Organ), proclaiming John 8: “Continue in my word… the truth will make you free.”
On Faith Alone (Sola Fide) (arr. Tom Fettke) confesses Romans 3: we are made new by Christ's blood, not by our works. Sola fide—“faith alone”—we stand, and we lay our gifts in the hands that always hold us.
Today we name our dead and give thanks for them — for ordinary saints whose lives taught us something of Christ. Daniel glimpses the great assembly; Jesus names the blessed as the poor, the grieving, the hungry, the merciful. We belong with them — and so we take our place at the table, surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.
This morning's prelude For All the Saints (arr. Anna Laura Page) is a bright procession of the communion of saints, lifting our remembrance into praise and thanksgiving.
I Sing a Song of the Saints of God (Wayne L. Wold) reminds us that saints are everyday people made holy by grace; all ages are invited to join the saints' song as we bring our gifts.
I'll Fly Away sends us out in sure hope of the life God promises, remembering those who now rest in God's light. All are welcome to join in the singing.
Out of deepest grief Job cries, "I know that my Redeemer lives." Jesus, pressed by the Sadducees to logic-chop the resurrection, simply answers that God is the God of the living. Every Sunday is a small Easter for this reason — we gather in the company of the living God, and the company he keeps.
Rise Up (Bifrost Arts) sends us out praying “your kingdom come”—standing with the weary and forgotten, trusting the Lord who raises life in the face of death.
Malachi and the gospel both describe a day that will come — frightening and bright. Between the already and the not-yet, the apostle gives us the only workable instruction: do not grow weary in doing what is right. The word and the meal are given for exactly such a Sunday as this.
All the Ends of the Earth calls all creation—earth and sea—to lift their eyes to God's wonders. The Lord who made the world has come with justice, faithful to ancient promises. Let everything make music before our God!
Psalm 98: All the Ends of the Earth sends us out in ringing praise—“all the ends of the earth have seen the victory of our God”—so endure, rejoice, and do what is right.
Jeremiah's righteous king turns out — on this strange feast day — to be the one crucified between two thieves. The throne is a cross; the crown is thorns; and the first to enter paradise is the one who asked to be remembered. The upside-down reign of Christ is the only reign that actually sets us free.
How Deep the Father’s Love for Us gathers us at the cross where Christ the King is revealed. We behold the One who carries our sin, whose wounds bring us life, and in whom we boast alone, for his love beyond all measure has paid our ransom.
Christ Is the King (arr. Donald Busarow) gathers our alleluias into one voice—love’s reconciling might unites us in service as we lay our gifts before the Shepherd-King.
Crown Him with Many Crowns sends us out rejoicing: Christ—firstborn of all creation and Lord of life—reigns, even from the cross. “Awake, my soul, and sing!”
The church's new year begins not with resolutions but with a wake-up call. Isaiah dreams of swords beaten into plowshares; Jesus warns us to stay alert — for the Lord is coming, and indeed comes among us already, in word and meal. Advent is the practice of living awake to that arriving grace.
I Rejoiced When I Heard Them Say (arr. John Michael Talbot) begins Advent with a pilgrim’s song—“let us go to the house of the Lord”—our feet set for peace as we enter God’s city and walk in the light.
Advent Prayer (Mark Patterson), offered by our Youth Choir, is a watchman’s plea: Light, Child, Savior—come quickly and guide us. In hope we place our gifts and keep awake.
Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus (arr. Nathan Drake) sends us out awake and expectant—born to set your people free, reign in us, and bring your gracious kingdom.
At the center of Advent stands John the Baptist — urgent, unvarnished, and unafraid to name what must change. Isaiah sees further still: a world where wolf and lamb lie down together, where no one hurts or destroys. We wait for that kingdom; we also receive a small portion of it each time we gather at the table.
Prelude
Advent–Christmas–Epiphany Hymn Sing
Today’s prelude is replaced by an Advent–Christmas–Epiphany hymn sing. All are invited to call out a favorite hymn from the Advent (239–267), Christmas (268–300), or Epiphany (301–318) sections of the ELW (cranberry red) hymnal.
A Voice Cries Out, “Prepare the Way of the Lord” (Lloyd Larson) sounds Isaiah’s comfort and John’s call—valleys lifted, rough places made plain—as we place our gifts on the road of repentance and hope toward Emmanuel.
A Voice Cries Out (Michael Joncas) sends us as heralds: “Prepare the way!”—lift up your voice, behold your God—the Shepherd who gathers lambs and leads us in the path of peace.
Today the desert blossoms, and John's disciples ask the question every believer asks sooner or later: are you the one, or should we look for another? Jesus answers by pointing not to himself but to the signs of mercy all around him — the blind seeing, the poor hearing good news. Advent joy is the slow recognition of God's kingdom already in motion.
Prelude
Advent–Christmas–Epiphany Hymn Sing
Today’s prelude is replaced by an Advent–Christmas–Epiphany hymn sing. All are invited to call out a favorite hymn from the Advent (239–267), Christmas (268–300), or Epiphany (301–318) sections of the ELW (cranberry red) hymnal.
Our Handbell Choir offers Advent Hope, a shimmering song of waiting that echoes Isaiah’s promise that the desert will blossom and the lame will leap, inviting us to watch with patience and joy for the quiet signs of God’s reign as we bring our gifts.
The name spoken over this child is Emmanuel — God with us. In Matthew's telling, it is Joseph who receives the angel's news and says yes with his life. On this last Sunday before Christmas we pray the O Antiphons' ancient petition: "Come, Emmanuel, come."
Prelude
Advent–Christmas–Epiphany Hymn Sing
Today’s prelude is replaced by an Advent–Christmas–Epiphany hymn sing. All are invited to call out a favorite hymn from the Advent (239–267), Christmas (268–300), or Epiphany (301–318) sections of the ELW (cranberry red) hymnal.
No Wind at the Window (John L. Bell, arr. Jennifer Kerr Breedlove Budziak) draws us into the quiet of the Annunciation, where Mary’s courageous yes welcomes Emmanuel as we bring our gifts.
Our postlude, “O Joseph, Awaken, Let Go of Your Fear,” gives musical voice to Joseph’s dream of Emmanuel, God with us, moving from uncertainty to trust and sending us out ready to welcome Christ with courage and quiet joy. The music is by Bex Gaunt, with text by Chris Shelton.
On the longest nights of the year, a child is born who is called Light — and the world's darkness, for a moment, cannot hold him back. Angels sing to shepherds on a Judean hillside; Paul tells Titus that the grace of God has appeared to all people. We gather by candlelight to receive that grace and carry its small flame back out into the night.
The youth choir's Jesus Comes proclaims the heart of Christmas Eve—Emmanuel, God with us—announcing with the angels the good news of great joy born this night.
Our postlude, “Joy to the World,” sends us out rejoicing with the angels’ good news of great joy for all people, inviting us to carry the light of Christ into the winter night and to share his peace with the world.
Christmas carries us, unavoidably, into Matthew's account of the Holy Innocents — children killed by Herod's fear. The birth of the light does not banish the world's shadows, but it stands beside every innocent who has suffered. The Lord who fled to Egypt as a refugee knows our losses and holds them in mercy.
Hallelujah Round of Praise (Mozart, arr. Austin Lovelace) is a joyful round of praise to the Creator, inviting us to lift our hallelujahs as we bring our gifts.
Our postlude, “Angels We Have Heard on High,” sends us out with the angels’ song of Gloria in excelsis Deo, lifting our eyes from the sorrows of the world to the Christ who comes among the lowly and invites all creation to rejoice in God’s saving love.
The great prologue of John sings the mystery: in Jesus, the Word who was with God from the beginning has pitched a tent among us. What sounds abstract becomes intimate at font and table — ordinary bread, ordinary water, ordinary words that carry the fullness of grace and truth.
Today we hear music shaped by the day’s theme: the Word made flesh, present among us. Valerie A. Floeter’s “Dearest Jesus, We Are Here” combines “Dearest Jesus, at Your Word” (Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier) with “Word of God, Come Down on Earth,” inviting us to receive Christ’s light and grace in Word and Sacrament.
Our postlude, King of Kings (Hillsong Worship), sends us out rejoicing in the One through whom all things came into being and in whom heaven and earth are gathered up. Having heard that the Word became flesh and made his home among us, we go in praise and thanksgiving, ready to bear the light of Christ the King into the world.
At the Jordan, Jesus steps into the water and is named Beloved. Isaiah calls this Servant the one who will bring justice — quietly, patiently, without breaking a bruised reed. In our own baptism we are named beloved too, and sent into a world that still needs the gentle justice of Christ.
Prelude
Introducing ELW Setting TwoPianoGuitar
Arthur and Ed will introduce Setting Two from Evangelical Lutheran Worship (pp. 120–137), by Marty Haugen. Crafted with piano accompaniment in mind, this sung liturgy will guide our worship throughout the Time after Epiphany.
This offertory hymn, Baptized in Water, places our praise at the font. In water and Spirit, God names us beloved and sends us to live with mercy and courage.
I've Just Come from the Fountain celebrates grace that is not only remembered but lived. Refreshed by God's mercy, we go in peace to serve our neighbors with gladness.
John points and says, "Look — the Lamb of God." Two disciples ask where Jesus is staying, and he answers simply: "Come and see." The whole Christian life begins with that quiet invitation, rediscovered each week as we come again to word and meal and see for ourselves.
We Will Glorify (Twila Paris) exhalts the Lamb whom John proclaims in today's gospel. Bells and voices together declare him King of kings and Lord of lords. All are invited to sing.
Psalm 40: Here I Am (Rory Cooney) sends us with the disciples' response on our lips. Called to come and see, we answer, "Here I am, Lord; I come to do your will."
Jesus walks the lakeshore and calls fishermen away from their nets — not because their work was unworthy, but because he had work for them that would be worthy of everything. We come each Sunday to be called afresh, and then sent back to the places we ordinarily live and work, bearing a greater light.
Come Follow Me Forever (Michael Haydn, arr. Patrick M. Liebergen) calls us to praise God’s holy name and follow Christ together, offering our lives along with these gifts.
Micah tells us what is required: do justice, love kindness, walk humbly. Jesus opens the Sermon on the Mount by calling blessed the very people the world does not bless — the poor in spirit, the mourners, the peacemakers. This is the wisdom Paul names as foolishness and rejoices in anyway.
We Are Called gathers us with Micah's ancient charge: to act with justice, to love tenderly, to walk humbly with God. As we assemble, we prepare to hear who the blessed ones are—the poor, the meek, the merciful—and to receive our calling to live this countercultural way.
Isaiah is blunt: the fast that God chooses is the loosing of every unjust bond and the sharing of bread. Jesus takes up the same thread — you are salt and light, he says, if you are willing to be flavor and illumination for somebody else's life. Baptism commissions us for exactly that work.
Go Light Your World calls us to carry Christ's flame into every corner of darkness—letting our light shine before others so they may give glory to our Father in heaven.
Lord, Whose Love through Humble Service echoes Isaiah's call: share your bread with the hungry, bring the homeless poor into your house, and your light shall break forth like the dawn.
On the mountaintop, just before the long road toward Jerusalem, Peter and James and John catch a glimpse of Jesus blazing with the glory that was always there. This last Sunday before Lent gives us the same glimpse — enough light to carry us through the forty days ahead.
On this last Sunday before Lent, Hallelujah sounds the church's great word of praise once more. We sing it fully today, knowing it will be set aside until Easter's dawn.
Elijah stands alongside Moses on the mount of Transfiguration, beholding the radiant glory of God's beloved Son. Echoing this triumphant vision, the Choir sings, “There is no god like Jehovah.”
Beautiful Things sends us from the mountaintop toward Ash Wednesday: God makes beautiful things out of dust. The Christ who shines in glory today will meet us in the ashes.
On our foreheads we receive the dust that we will one day become — and in the same mark we trace the cross that has already claimed us. Joel calls us to return; Paul says we are, in Christ, already reconciled. Lent begins here: honest about our mortality, unafraid because of mercy.
The first Sunday of Lent finds Jesus in the wilderness for forty days, being tested — and answering each temptation not with his own strength but with scripture. We join that long walk, not because God is absent in the wilderness, but because the wilderness turns out to be the place where God is unmistakably present.
The Choir opens our Lenten journey with Kyrie Eleison: Lord, have mercy. Its verses pray that God's Spirit would center our lives in the water and the word. Listen for the melody now, and we will sing this song together at the end of the service.
The Choir sings Luther's A Mighty Fortress in an arrangement by Ken Berg. Led by the Spirit into the wilderness, Jesus met every temptation not with divine power but with the word of God alone. Luther's hymn answers with the same defiant trust: God's truth endures through every age.
Our midweek Holden Evening Prayer services trace the way of Christ through his own body. Tonight we begin at his feet — beautiful upon the mountains with good news (Isaiah 52), and washed with the tears of a forgiven woman (Luke 7).
Jesu, Jesu, Fill Us with Your Love (ELW 708, a Ghanaian folk song adapted by Tom Colvin) kneels with Christ at his friends' feet: “Kneels at the feet of his friends, silently washes their feet.” It asks that we learn to serve the neighbors God gives us.
Abraham is told to leave what he knows and go. Nicodemus is told he must be born from above. Both stories describe the strange work of a God who does not let us stay put. Lent is a season for saying yes to that kind of unsettling invitation — trusting the promise even before we see where it leads.
Unto the Hills echoes Psalm 121 as the Choir gathers us into worship: “I lift up my eyes to the hills; from where does my help come?” Like Abram, who left everything familiar to follow God's call into unknown territory, we begin worship looking upward in trust. Our help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.
God So Loved the World places John 3:16 on our lips. In today's gospel, Jesus reveals to Nicodemus that God's love is not a reward for the righteous but a gift for the whole world. Let us all join in and proclaim this promise in song.
I Lift My Eyes Up returns us to Psalm 121 as we go. The psalm's promise frames our sending: the Lord will watch over our coming and going, both now and forevermore.
A thirsty people in the desert; a thirsty woman at a Samaritan well. God supplies water from a rock; Jesus offers a water that becomes a spring inside us. Lent circles back again and again to the font — to the promise that the water given there will not run dry.
The theme of spiritual thirst runs through today's readings—Israel thirsting in the wilderness, the Samaritan woman at the well. Fill My Cup, Lord (arr. Dennis Richardson) opens the service with a prayer to be filled by the living water Jesus offers.
The Handbell Choir echoes today's Hymn of the Day: I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say (arr. Jefferey A. Hall), which recalls the Gospel encounter at Jacob's well. Jesus's invitation to the Samaritan woman—and to all who are weary—resonates in the words: “I heard the voice of Jesus say, ‘Come unto me and rest.’”
Come to the Water (John B. Foley) draws on Isaiah's invitation and the baptismal imagery of today's Gospel. As the woman at the well discovered living water, this postlude invites all to come freely to the water of life.
Tonight we ponder the mouth of Christ — the Word who answers the tempter with Scripture and proclaims good news in the synagogue at Nazareth. We live not by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.
Keith Getty and Stuart Townend's Speak, O Lord prays for hearts ready to receive the Word: “Speak, O Lord, as we come to you to receive the food of your holy word.”
A young shepherd is chosen for what the prophet could not see by looking at him. A man born blind is given eyes that see what the religious authorities refuse to. Baptism is sometimes called enlightenment for this reason — it teaches us to see differently, and then to trust what we see.
Be Thou My Vision (arr. Marie Pooler) is a prayer for spiritual sight, echoing the Gospel's healing of the man born blind. As Jesus opens the eyes of one who has never seen, we ask God to be our vision—the true light that overcomes all darkness, just as Paul urges in Ephesians: “Once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light.”
Open My Eyes connects directly to the Gospel story of Jesus healing the man born blind. The prayer to have one's eyes opened mirrors the physical and spiritual sight Jesus grants in John 9.
At the Foot of the Cross (Derek Bond) kneels in awe at the mercy of Calvary. As the man born blind discovered sight he never imagined, this song marvels that the King of all creation died for us—and sends us forth to praise his majesty.
In a valley of dry bones, God breathes life back into what looked finished. Outside Bethany's tomb, Jesus calls Lazarus out by name. The stories do not promise that we will be spared loss — they promise that loss does not have the last word. The baptismal promise is the same.
Hymn of Promise speaks of life hidden within apparent death—the flower within the seed, the butterfly within the cocoon. This mirrors Ezekiel's valley of dry bones brought to life and the raising of Lazarus in today's Gospel.
Wondrous Love reflects the depth of Christ's compassion shown in the raising of Lazarus. Jesus wept at Lazarus's tomb, revealing a love so wondrous that it conquers death itself.
Here on Jesus Christ I Will Stand responds to Paul's assurance in Romans 8 that the Spirit who raised Christ will give life to our mortal bodies. Standing on Jesus Christ is standing on the promise of resurrection.
On our final midweek night we look through the eyes of Christ, who opens the eyes of a man born blind (John 9) and whose eye is upon those who hope in his steadfast love (Psalm 33).
Marty Haugen's Healer of Our Every Ill (ELW 612) prays for light and sight: “Healer of our every ill, light of each tomorrow.” As Christ gives sight to the man born blind, we ask him to give us hearts that see.
The palms we wave today are already being laid in the road of the Passion. Jesus enters Jerusalem not on a warhorse but on a borrowed donkey, and the same crowd that shouts Hosanna will shout Crucify before the week is out. Paul names it cleanly: he emptied himself, all the way down to a cross — and there is the glory.
Little Gray Donkey tells the story of the humble donkey that carried Jesus into Jerusalem. On Palm Sunday, we remember the triumphal entry—a king arriving not on a warhorse but on a lowly donkey, fulfilling Zechariah's prophecy.
Dan Forrest's setting of Wesley's text marvels at the mystery of the cross we hear proclaimed in today's Passion. Echoing Philippians 2, the choir sings of Christ who “emptied himself of all but love” and bled for us all.
The King of Glory echoes Psalm 24 and the Palm Sunday acclamation: “The King of Glory comes, the nation rejoices!” As the crowds shouted “Hosanna,” we too proclaim the King of Glory who enters in the name of the Lord.
On his last evening with his disciples, Jesus did not deliver a final lecture. He bent down with a basin and towel. "A new commandment I give you," he said: "love one another as I have loved you." Tonight we eat and remember, and ready ourselves to walk the hard days ahead together.
Bring Us Home sets a tone of tender longing as Jesus gathered his disciples for a final meal, calling them to love one another. The prayer to be brought home echoes the disciples' need for comfort on this solemn night.
In Remembrance directly references Jesus's words at the Last Supper: “Do this in remembrance of me.” As Paul recounts in 1 Corinthians 11, the bread and cup proclaim the Lord's death, and this anthem carries that command with gentle intimacy.
Good Friday is a day of long silences and hard looking. Isaiah's suffering servant bears our wounds; John's passion shows a king reigning from a cross. We stand beneath the tree today not in despair but in the ancient Christian confidence that the tree itself turns out to be, somehow, a tree of life.
"This is the day that the Lord has made" — and no day is more fully his than this one: Christ is risen. The stone is rolled away; the women come back from the tomb astonished and unable to keep quiet. We cannot keep quiet either. We sing; we feast; and we carry the news back out of the sanctuary with us.
Joseph M. Martin's jubilant Easter anthem proclaims the resurrection: “Christ is risen, sing alleluia; love has triumphed over the grave.” On this Easter morning, the Choir leads us into worship with the joy proclaimed in Psalm 118: rejoice and be glad!
The youth bring the Easter story to life in this joyful canon by Jennifer Kerr Breedlove. Two-part voices and handbells retell the women's visit to the tomb—from weeping at dawn to the angel's proclamation: “He is risen!”
Redeemer celebrates the redemptive work of Christ. Acts 10 proclaims that God raised Jesus on the third day, and this gospel-infused anthem responds with exuberant praise: “I know my Redeemer lives!”
This Is the Day captures the heart of Easter's joy in Psalm 118:24: “This is the day that the Lord has made.” This sending piece carries the congregation out with the psalm's triumphant declaration, a fitting close to the most celebratory day in the church year.
On the first day of the week — and a week later — Jesus stands among his frightened disciples and simply says, "Peace." Thomas's doubt is met not with rebuke but with an invitation to touch and see. Our own doubts, today and every Sunday, find the same gentle hospitality here.
Come Away to the Skies invites believers to joyful celebration. As Peter preaches in Acts 2 about the risen Christ, this Easter hymn sustains the season's upward gaze toward the living hope described in 1 Peter.
Touch That Soothes and Heals speaks of Christ's healing presence. In John 20, the risen Jesus shows his wounds to the disciples and offers peace. Thomas touches those wounds and believes—the touch that soothes and heals is the touch of the risen Lord.
Shalom—peace—is the risen Christ's first word to his fearful disciples behind locked doors (John 20:19, 21). This benedictory piece sends the congregation out with the peace that Jesus breathed on his followers.
Two disciples leave Jerusalem grieving, certain that the story has ended badly. A stranger walks with them and opens the scriptures; then, at table, their eyes are opened in the breaking of bread. Every Sunday gathering is the Emmaus walk in miniature — hearts warmed by the word, Christ recognized in the meal, feet sent back to Jerusalem with news.
Stay with Us captures the heartfelt plea of the disciples on the Emmaus road: “Stay with us, for it is almost evening”—the moment just before their eyes are opened and they recognize the risen Christ.
I Will Arise and Go to Jesus mirrors the Emmaus disciples' response: after encountering the risen Lord, they immediately arise and return to Jerusalem. As Peter preaches in Acts, “Repent and be baptized,” we too arise and go to Jesus.
To Emmaus, We Are Fleeing tells the Emmaus story, capturing the disciples' journey from grief to recognition. As they walk away from Jerusalem in despair, Christ walks alongside them, and in the breaking of bread their eyes are opened—a powerful image of how the risen Lord meets us in our doubt and reveals himself in worship.
Good Shepherd Sunday turns on Jesus' promise: "I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly." Psalm 23 names what that abundance looks like — not wealth but presence, a shepherd beside still waters, a table prepared even among enemies, goodness and mercy following close behind. 1 Peter calls this same shepherd the guardian of our souls, and Acts shows the first Christians living his abundance together — breaking bread, sharing what they have, making sure no one goes without.
The King of Love My Shepherd Is paraphrases Psalm 23, the psalm appointed for today. The Good Shepherd who leads beside still waters and through the valley of death is the same one Jesus describes in John 10—the one who calls his own sheep by name and leads them out to abundant life.
Always in Your Presence reflects the intimate relationship between shepherd and flock described in both the psalm and the Gospel—the assurance that we dwell in God's presence, guided and protected, as Peter writes: “You have returned to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.”
The Lord's My Shepherd sends the congregation out with the confidence of the psalmist's declaration. Having heard the Gospel promise of abundant life through the Good Shepherd, we go forth trusting that goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our life.
Jesus promises his troubled disciples a dwelling place — not an abstract heaven but the steady presence of the Father in whose house there is room for everyone. 1 Peter calls us living stones, built into that same house. Stephen, full of the Spirit, sees it all and commits his life into the same hands.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled,” Jesus tells his disciples before promising to prepare a place for them. You Are Mine echoes that assurance in the first person—“I will come to you in the silence,… I will be your light, I will call your name.” The Gospel's promise becomes a love song from Christ to the assembly.
Bob Hurd's I Am the Way and the Truth and the Life sets both epistle and gospel in a single anthem. The refrain quotes Jesus' words from John 14:6, while the verses draw directly from 1 Peter's “living stones” and “chosen people” imagery. The choir and assembly answer the Gospel with the very words of the Gospel.
Jay Beech's The Church Song sends the congregation out with 1 Peter's vision in plain speech: “The church is not a building… the church, it is the people living out their lives, called, enlightened, sanctified for the work of Jesus Christ.” Having heard that we are living stones built into a spiritual house, we go to be that house in the world.
Jesus will not leave his followers orphans. As Pentecost draws near, we are promised another Advocate — the Spirit who abides with us and teaches us to love as we have been loved. Paul tells the Athenians that the unknown God they have worshiped is already, in Christ, a God not far from any of us.
Joel Raney's choral setting of Jesus Loves Me weaves Anna Warner's familiar text together with his own refrain, “We are all God's children.” On a day when Jesus promises, “I will not leave you orphaned,” the simplest of Christian songs proclaims the deepest of Christian truths—a word the combined choir offers to the gathered children of the heavenly Father.
Jeremy S. Bakken's setting of Caroline V. Sandell Berg's beloved Swedish hymn Children of the Heavenly Father (Tryggare kan ingen vara) answers the Gospel's promise directly: “I will not leave you orphaned.”“Children of the heavenly Father safely in his bosom gather”—the Spirit whom Jesus sends is the Advocate who keeps us always in the care of a God “not far from each one of us” (Acts 17).
Koiné's contemporary setting of Jaroslav Vajda's Go, My Children, with My Blessing, paired with the traditional Welsh tune Ar hyd y nos, sends the congregation out in the voice of the parent God: “Waking, sleeping, I am with you; you are my own.” This is the gentle assurance that answers Jesus' promise in today's gospel—“I will not leave you orphaned.”
In the quiet between Ascension and Pentecost, the disciples gather in the upper room and wait. Jesus's own prayer on the last night he was with them is not for himself but for their unity — that they may be one. It remains the church's truest prayer, and its hardest one.
Karen Thompson's handbell setting of the American folk tune Dove of Peace carries Brian Wren's text I Come with Joy—a hymn of unity in Christ: “As Christ breaks bread and bids us share, each proud division ends.” In the days between Ascension and Pentecost, as we wait with the disciples for the Spirit, the bells sound the prayer of today's gospel: that they may be one.
Dolores Hruby's setting of My Spirit Rejoices, adapted from Bach's choral writing, gives the youth an Easter proclamation drawn from Mary's song (Luke 1:47): “My spirit rejoices, arises with joy! Christ Jesus, you save us and death you destroy.” In these days between Ascension and Pentecost, their song keeps the resurrection alive in the voice of the whole church—the witness Jesus prays for in today's gospel.
Marty Haugen's We Are Many Parts draws on Paul's image of the one body with many members (1 Corinthians 12): “We are many parts, we are all one body.” On a Sunday whose gospel is Jesus' prayer that his followers be one, the assembly sings the unity the church is given in Christ.
Pepper Choplin's One Song is a direct setting of today's gospel: “I pray for all believers, that they will be one, as you, Father, are in me, and I in you.” As Jesus prays for the unity of his followers in John 17, the choir makes his prayer its own—that the world may believe.
Don Besig and Nancy Price's Go Now In Peace sends the congregation out with a gentle benediction: “God's pure light shine on you, God's true love surround you, everywhere, everywhere you may go.” As Jesus prays that his followers be kept in the Father's name, this farewell carries his intercession into the week ahead.
Fifty days after Easter, the Spirit arrives like wind and fire, and disciples who had been huddled behind locked doors are suddenly speaking in every language they hear. The same Spirit that hovered over the waters at creation is poured out on ordinary people, equipping them for a work bigger than themselves. That work is still going.
Before the Pentecost wind rushes in, Sidney Lawton's flute duet arrangement of Bach's Sheep May Safely Graze offers a moment of pastoral stillness. The melody sings of the safety of the flock under a faithful shepherd—a gentle reminder, as the church prepares to receive the Spirit, that the same Lord who breathed “peace be with you” on the disciples (John 20) sends us the Advocate who guards us still.
Swee-Hong Lim's As the Wind Song (ACS 943) names the Spirit in the images of Pentecost—wind, fire, and breath: “as the wind song through the trees, as the stirring of the breeze.” The assembly sings the Spirit's unseen, life-giving presence poured out in Acts 2.
Anna Laura Page's handbell setting of Trentham carries Edwin Hatch's prayer Breathe on Me, Breath of God—the essence of Pentecost in a single line. As the Spirit descends in rushing wind and flame in Acts 2, and as Jesus breathes on his disciples in John 20, the bells sound the church's answering prayer: “breathe on me, breath of God, fill me with life anew.”
Dan Schutte's Send Us Your Spirit sends the congregation out with the very petition of the day: “Send us your spirit, O Lord; wake the morning light.” It is the prayer that Pentecost both answers and makes our own, as we are sent with the Spirit's gifts “for the common good” (1 Corinthians 12).
The word "trinity" never appears in scripture — and yet the shape of God's life comes through on every page. Creator, Christ, Spirit: three ways God is God, each known to us personally. We rest not in having solved the mystery, but in having been embraced by it, and sent out in its name to make more disciples.
The Play of the Godhead (ACS 947) opens Trinity Sunday with a vision of the triune God—Father, Son, and Spirit—delighting in one another in an eternal dance of love, and drawing all creation into that joy.
Joseph M. Martin's choral anthem Our Song Shall Rise To Thee builds on Reginald Heber's classic Trinity hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy” (Nicaea). “God in three persons, blessed Trinity”—the same confession that echoes Paul's apostolic greeting from today's second reading: “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”
Michael W. and Deborah D. Smith's Great Is the Lord sends the congregation out with unrestrained Trinitarian praise. “Holy, holy, great is the Lord”—a fitting final word on a day when the church is sent, as in Matthew 28, to baptize all nations in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.