“Jesus lives! thy terrors now
Can, O Death, no more appall us;
Jesus lives! by this we know
Thou, O Grave, cannot enthrall us.
Alleluia!”
These are the opening words to Chrysogonus Waddell’s “Jesus Lives,” which is one of my favorite songs that the Notre Dame Folk Choir sings. It’s traditionally sung around Easter, as the lyrics describe our hope as Christians in what Christ’s Resurrection means for us. Alleluia! He is risen, and therefore death has no more power over us.
The first time I sang this song, however, was for a memorial service. A junior Notre Dame student passed away in the first semester of my freshman year, and the Folk Choir was asked to sing for it. I remember that a friend of mine, who had known the student, was originally disappointed in the choice of music for the service. She thought that it was too joyful, not fitting in a time of such tragedy. After the memorial, she retracted her formal statement, saying that as a matter of fact, it is exactly in times of tragedy that we most need that unshakeable hope in the Resurrection.
When we sung it again at Easter, I felt as though the words had a weight that I wouldn’t have recognized before the memorial service. The Resurrection isn’t a distant memory in the history of the Church, but rather a truth that we must grapple with every day.
“Jesus lives! henceforth is death
But the gate to Life immortal;
This shall calm our trembling breath,
When we pass its gloomy portal.
Alleluia!”
If I had to pick favorite lines from this song, I would probably pick these. Death is terrifying, especially when it occurs suddenly, senselessly, or violently. It’s almost impossibly difficult to watch our loved ones pass through that “gloomy portal” without us.
I tend to dislike the phrase, “They’re in a better place now,” when speaking of loss. Yes, they might be in a better place, but what about me? I’m not grieving because I’m worried about the person who has died, but because I’m going to miss their presence in my life. Death can also remind us, rather abruptly, of our own mortality, and fear is a natural part of being human.
This part of the song might sound like the same sentiment wrapped up in gorgeous language and topped with a bow, but I think it’s different. The poet recognizes our fear and reframes death as a gate to eternal life. We will go join our loved ones there, eventually, and while we might be deeply grieved, we should not necessarily be afraid.
“Jesus lives! our hearts know well
Naught from us His love shall sever;
Life, nor death, nor powers of hell
Tear us from His keeping ever.
Alleluia!”
This past weekend, I sang this song for another memorial, thousands of miles away from the people I most wanted to be with. I asked for this piece to be sung as a post-communion anthem, because I wanted to feel connected to my friends in Folk Choir, all of whom were grieving an incredible loss.
As I was singing it this time, I also felt a sense of connectedness to the global Church. Here I was, a new choir member and an American living in Dublin, asking the other choristers to learn a new song twenty minutes before mass for a girl that they had never met. They did it without hesitation.
We all know what it’s like to experience loss, in one form or another, and we as Christians know what the Resurrection means for life after death. It’s a little difficult to remember that in the midst of loss. But a good community, whether it’s across an ocean or up in the choir loft with you, can remind you of the communion of saints in a beautiful and gentle way.
“Jesus lives! to Him the Throne
Over all the world is given;
May we go where He is gone,
Rest and reign with Him in heaven.
Alleluia!”
Alleluia. He is risen, and for us, that means everything.
