The Three Hymns

Sometimes, in the stillness between sorrow and surrender, heaven comes quietly into view.

Since Friday night, my heart has not been quiet.

Three hymns have played on a loop in my

mind—not from a speaker or a playlist, but from some place deeper. Like echoes of comfort trying to reach me across the distance of grief I’m only just beginning to feel.

How Great Thou Art. It found me in the clearing skies. In the bells that rang when the world was briefly still. In the moments where the ache felt too wide to hold, and something greater whispered, “You are not alone in this.”

The Old Rugged Cross. That one feels heavier. Like standing beside someone you love and watching them carry a burden no one should bear. It reminds me of the quiet kind of suffering—the faithful kind—the kind that makes you stronger just by witnessing it. The hymn of endurance. Of surrender. Of love that doesn’t turn away.

Just As I Am. It lingers softly. A hymn not of power, but of peace. A hymn for those who are tired. For those who are worn down. For those nearing the edge of something we cannot yet understand. It’s a threshold song. One that welcomes, accepts, and says: “Come, just as you are. You don’t have to fix anything first.”

Together, these hymns have become my quiet prayer.They speak where I can’t.They carry the love I’m not sure how to say out loud.They hold me in the moments when I want to fall apart and remind me that the sacred is still close, even now.

Maybe this is how grief begins—not in the silence after, but in the music before.