The Silent Carol

By Ryanne Molinari

As believers and nonbelievers alike join in rousing and relentless caroling, they profess at least a basic understanding of the Christmas message. However, the popular litany of carols tends to be one-sided, resounding with Christmas cheer before reckoning with holy fear. Although rejoicing is an appropriate response to Christ’s birth, it is worth remembering the truth of the Psalms: that stillness and reverence beget knowledge (Psalm 111:10, 46:10). For this reason, “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” offers a much-needed text and tune which compel hearers to “be still and know” the One of whom they sing. Other carols may sing of silence, but they rarely evoke silence in response. I recall one Christmas Eve when “Silent Night” served as the closing carol and, ironically, the loudest. By contrast, “Let All Mortal Flesh” fosters stillness through its chantlike composition and profound theological scope. This “silent carol” reminds believers that, like music, worship consists of both silence and sound, awe and adoration. In exhorting hearers to “keep silence” and “ponder nothing earthly minded,” the opening lines suggest that sung proclamation without silent preparation would be inappropriate—the worldly cacophony of those who speak without having ears to hear. By commanding and modeling quietude, “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” paves the way for the revelation and reception of the Incarnate Word.

As St. Paul writes, believers are to sing with both spirit and mind, seeking to understand what they proclaim (1 Corinthians 14:15). Upon commanding silence, “Let All Mortal Flesh” offers an informative meditation on the Incarnation, demonstrating how seeming opposites are held together in Christ: divinity and humanity, eternity and infancy, incorruptibility and brokenness, immortality and mortal flesh. This carol connects these contrasts through rhyme and parallelism to poetically portray their unification in Christ. For example, the text begins by describing Christ’s descent, an image associated with tender nativity scenes. The subsequent line, however, reveals that Christ’s condescension does not merely welcome humanity but “demands” its total devotion. The lowly birth of Christ testifies to his undeniable glory. This harmonization of opposites continues to describe Christ as newborn yet age-old, eternally begotten yet timely born. Through this balanced presentation of the Incarnation, “Let All Mortal Flesh” does not hesitate to proclaim Christ’s victory, but it is careful to account for its costliness. In the second verse, Christ gives his body and blood to the faithful, foreshadowing his dying “Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani?” in the present sweetness of his newborn cry.

The hope of this carol is not some vague victory, but a theologically-articulate triumph over darkness by the One who dwells in unapproachable light.

The final verse concludes with images of adoring seraphim and cherubim—a host far more fearsome than typical Christmas angels!—and by ending with such powerful images and a sudden crescendo of “Alleluia, Lord most high,” this carol again confirms that Christ’s descent counterintuitively proves his Lordship. This awe-inspiring emphasis should evoke “fear and trembling,” not to discourage listeners but to help them better know and adore their humble-highest Lord. 

In discussing any hymn, it is essential to analyze the tune as well as the text. While many texts can be set to other tunes of similar meters, it is difficult to imagine “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” sung to any tune other than “Picardy.” This is significant, for it provides an aural expression of the Incarnation.

Although set in a minor key, arrangements of “Picardy” frequently feature a raised third in the final bassline. This detail should spark the attention of Christians as potentially reflective of the Resurrection, the “risen third” that forms the foundation of our faith.

The simple shape of this tune is also important. Aside from the final two staves, it moves stepwise, suggesting chant-like origins and conveying a sense of stillness. Consider, by contrast, the scintillating melismas of “Angels We Have Heard on High” and the rhythmic fanfare of “Joy to the World.” Instead, “Picardy” is reminiscent of a long sigh, rising and falling in a pattern suited to the anticipation of Advent and the expectation of the intertestamental period. Further, that such a rich text is set to such a plain melody is perhaps reflective of the immense Word of God born in human form: divinity and mortality intermingling more perfectly than text and tune.

In an increasingly noisy culture and season, the invocation and instruction of “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” are imperative, both for personal and communal meditation. Although well-known by traditional congregations, this Advent anthem is not popular among contemporary setlists, which tend to favor band-driven Christmas praise. Pragmatically, though, “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence '' counterbalances this common repertoire and is worth including in (or introducing to) Advent worship. Although not immediately familiar to contemporary congregations, its straightforward tune provides an access point for new singers; despite its theologically rich text, “Let All Mortal Flesh” is not musically overwhelming. The tonality and basic melody are also partially imitated (intentionally or not) by more familiar songs such as “Mary, Did you Know?” It may be useful to set songs such as these in antiphony, with one speculating on the Virgin Mary’s experience and the other expositing the nature of the Incarnation. Such a pairing is both practical, serving to reintroduce “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” and incarnational, allowing the ancient carol to inhabit and inform contemporary worship. Whether implemented in congregational services or used for private contemplation,”Let All Mortal Flesh” exemplifies and encourages the hushed anticipation of Advent. Together, the text and tune compel listeners to put aside worldly noise and, through silence, to conceive and bear a deeper knowledge of the Word who took on “mortal flesh.”

Ryanne Moliari, musician & writer

To read more from Ryanne, please visit: https://abookishcharm.com/

Cover image from Pixabay.com (Northern Lights in Iceland)