Platonic and neoplatonic philosophers recognise the existence of two kinds of death, one in which the body leaves the soul (this is the natural death) and one in which it is the soul that leaves the body (this is called voluntary death and it refers to practicing philosophy — that is to use reason, free from the addictive influence of our material existence). Philosophers will experience both deaths, the latter in preparation for the former — they will learn to identify, to understand and to channel their emotions reasonably rather than be enslaved by them. Emotions, however, are strongly persuasive, much stronger than reason, thus decisions can at times become heavy, as one desire pulls in one direction and the other in the opposite one. The reconciliation of opposites is no easy process. But it starts with renunciation and continues with the endurance of an inner trial, a symbolic death and a symbolic resurrection.
Haggard’s “All’inizio è la morte” is an all-time favorite and a tremendous inspiration for times of inner struggle. A solemn choir opens with an excerpt from “Libera me”, a repository sung in the Catholic Office of the Dead, at the absolution service, after the Requiem Mass and before the burial. It is a ceremony of prayer, in which God is asked for mercy upon the deceased at the Last Judgment: „Tremens factus sum ego et timeo dum discussio venerit atque ventura ira” (I have been made to shiver and I fear while the judgment is coming and the wrath). When the choir quiets down, the acoustic guitar accompanies the tenor reciting an unholy invitation to sit and witness the public execution of a man accused of lying, and condemned to being set on fire in a ritualistic procession. The growled lyrics convey that the crowd’s rage had been weaponised by the ruling religious authority against what they called “forbidden wisdom and all the things he sees collected in a chamber - secrets of astronomy”. Historical pieces were woven together into a heartrending fictional account of an astronomer whose evidence-based scientific discoveries had brought forth reasons for doubting the long upheld holy teachings that had been accepted for centuries.
Starting from the Latin verses in Haggard’s music, we invite you to immerse yourself into the full Latin text of Dies Irae (the Day of Wrath). The Latin version of the text belongs to a XIIIth century manuscript and is inspired from The Book of Zephaniah (The One Protected by God) who is the 9th prophet of the Old Testament. One of the most haunting questions many thoughtful people have wrestled with is how do we reconcile two seemingly opposing images of God — the merciful and the merciless — that we have inherited through scripture, culture and music?
I. Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeculum in favila: teste David cum Sibylla
(Day of wrath that day, will dissolve the world in ashes — testimony of David and Sibyl).
The pairing together of a biblical king and a pagan prophetess suggests an interesting unity in the affirmations made by two different cultures, leading us to wonder if there are particular divine truths witnessed through different lenses, yet the same in essence, one of these truths being that a day of divine wrath is unavoidable. It’s probably not that the gods are ill tempered like the humans, but rather that humans tend to experience adversities as personal affronts or punishments for wrongdoings or disruptions brought by human action to the cosmic order. Human beings fail to appreciate the ways of nature, when nature doesn’t work according to their expectations and demands.
II. Quantus tremor est futurus, quando iudex est venturus, cuncta stricte discussurus
(How great will be the fear when the judge will have come, strictly investigating it all).
This radical clarity and justice beyond any human bias engenders fear of being found guilty. Justice is a human construct projected onto natural events which are amoral. We do so because we experience a need for explanation and control over what is actually not in our power. Some things we’ll understand only after we’ve suffered their unexpected and perhaps painful impact.
III. Tuba, mirum spargens sonum per sepulchra regionum, coger omnes ante thronum. (Wondrous sound of the trumpet will scatter over the graves of the region and bring everyone before the throne).
The dead as well as the living are summoned before a force that unites them all in front of the same spiritual authority. Perhaps we tend to hope that when we experience life as unfair, this supposed injustice can be addressed for the sake of ourselves and of the loved ones we’ve lost to death so far.
IV. Mors stupebit et natura cum resurget creatura ludicanti responsura.
(Death and nature will marvel as the creature rises making an answer to its judge).
The personification of death and nature, by assuming they experience bewilderment is perhaps a suggestion that everything will respond to the judgment with an explanation. The religious text aims to convey the grandiosity of the divine judgment that even nature and death fears it. From a more scientific stance, human judgment projected onto the world with intent to control it will be met with further input from the world, leading to the refinement of our understanding.
V. Liber scriptus proferetur in quo totum continetur unde mundus iudicetur.
(The written book will be brought forth, in which all is contained and by which the world will be judged).
This seems to be a metaphor referring to absolute knowledge or omniscience. The ultimate desire of control by humans is probably to possess this "book". Originally this was thought to be the religious scriptures and it was used in so many problematic ways by human beings. Absolute knowledge would theoretically grant the power to predict, understand and manipulate the whole world - a wisdom akin to the divine, yet utterly contaminated by human greed. The reality for human beings is starkly different: we are bound to capture only fleeting snippets of knowledge, inevitably interpreting them through the distorting lens of our own biases, often becoming intoxicated by the illusion of certainty.
VI. Iudex ergo cum sedebit quidquid latet apparebit: nil inultum remanebit
(Thus when the Judge sits, whatever lies hidden will appear: nothing will remain unavenged).
Apart from reiterating judgment and accountability, this verse describes the judge “sitting”, signifying the commencement of unveiling the hidden or the concealed: not only actions are seen, but also the thoughts and intentions and feelings behind them. The anticipated comprehension might provoke deceptive hope in those who believe themselves innocent while eliciting fear in those who acknowledge their own guilt. Yet, the accuracy of our self-assessment and the reliability of our moral compass are far from certain. If our perception of our own innocence or guilt is in itself flawed, the unveiling of our hidden motivations could lead to a painful awakening. The quality of our self-perception influences our anticipation of the divine judgment. Good quality judgment can also subtly improve the way we see ourselves.
VII. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus, cum vix iustus sit securus? (What shall poor me then say? What patron shall I intercede when even the righteous may hardly be secure?)
This verse voices doubt about oneself and about anyone who believed they acted righteously. The fear arises that underlying motives could turn out to have been flawed or unintended negative consequences may have ensued with or without one’s awareness. Feeling vulnerable, one thus hesitates to act or speak, fearing unintended errors despite good intentions. The plea for a patron reflects a longing for guidance and a desire to offload the weight of responsibility and the weight of free choice, in a world where our limited knowledge offers no certainties.
VIII. Rex tremendae maiestatis qui salvados salvas gratis, salva me, fons pietatis.
(King, tremendous majesty who gratuitously saves the redeemed, save me, fountain of mercy).
The verse reveals the fundamental human desire to escape unforeseen suffering, a perhaps futile cry directed at ultimate power, mirroring our childlike impulse to seek comfort and protection after wrongdoing, hoping to evade consequences and accountability. The epithet “fountain of mercy” could be a common cynical manipulative tactic hoping the deity will be enticed to show leniency, to conform to this attribute. Or perhaps it’s an intuitive metaphor for the inherent unpredictability of fortune, where sometimes, despite our errors and flawed actions, things unexpectedly turn out well.
IX. Recordare, Iesu pie quod sum causa tuae viae ne me perdas illa die
(Remember, merciful Jesus, that I am the cause of your way, do not lose me on that day)
In Christian thought, a separation emerged between humans and the divine when with the consumption of fruit from the tree of knowledge, tempted as we have ever since been by omniscience. An extraordinary act of divine love awoke a sense of responsibility in people. When faced with the clarity that they had executed the Son of their God, humanity began to learn to acknowledge their own capacity to misjudge and to cause suffering, irrespective of their intent. Realising that they have a significant influence on one another’s paths in life, they finally understand the unavoidability of sin as pertaining to human nature. Since then, they hope that their wrongdoings are not going to be counted against them. Repentance and forgiveness given and accepted, are the essential gestures of mending a broken relationship. The “don’t lose me on that day” is almost like an apology provided in advance, conveying our desire for preemptive grace and understanding.
X. Quaerens me sedisti lassus: redemisti crucem passus: tantus labor non sit cassus
(Seeking me you rested tired, you redeemed me by suffering on the cross, let not such hardship be in vain).
There is an effort, a significant cost to searching for the humanity and the divinity in the others: dying on the cross can symbolise a radical form of empathy, where one lets go of their own ego, biases and preconceived notions in order to truly understand the other person. It can also mean bearing the other person’s burdens, understanding their pain and standing in solidarity with their struggles. How many of us are genuinely willing to sacrifice our comfort, our reputation and our needs in order to nurture the best in others, even when it’s not apparent? How many of us are willing to give up self-defence for the sake of being truly authentic and hold space for consolation, healing, learning and transformation? Such efforts are wasted if we hold our sacrifice against each other. Thus the tenth verse in Dies irae could be a plea to preserve the relationship despite reasons to abandon it.
XI. Iuste Iudex ultioni, donum fac remisionis ante diem rationis
(Righteous judge for vengeance, great your gift of absolution before the day of the retribution).
There is almost always a tension between justice and mercy. How to be both lenient and restore balance after wrongdoings? The righteous judge, capable of restorative justice, as opposed to the retributive, the punitive or the retaliatory, offers absolution before the full weight of consequences. The greater good served in this way is allowing for learning, growth and preventing an escalation of further harm.
XII. Ingemisco, tamquam reus: culpa rubet vultus meus: supplicanti parce, Deus
(I moan like the guilty: owning my fault, spare the imploring one, God).
In this explicit and emotionally charged admission of guilt and remorse, the plea is humble, it is not a demand for forgiveness as a mere favor or gift, but rather a yearning for a chance at repair.
XIII. Qui Mariam absolvisti et latronmem exaudisti, mihi quoque spem dedisti
(You who absolved Mary and forgave the dying thief, give me a last hope as well). Remembrance of historical precedents in which transformative absolution had been possible affirms trust in a graceful God, the best kind of Other who is forever capable of love even towards the least deserving.
XIV. Preces meae non sunt dignae: sed tu bonus fac benigne, ne perenni cremer igne. (My prayers are not worthy, yet you do the good and not let me burn forever)
Each of us holds the power to forgive and yearns for others to recognise their power to forgive us. We face a choice: let one another burn — remain in a transformative process of intense emotional and spiritual effort — or take a graceful step towards closure. Perhaps this process isn’t meant to be rushed or shortened, despite our temptation to wish for it to be painless and brief. The core plea is against endless burning or eternal suffering, realising that we, humans, are so apt at keeping hell in our lives and getting used to it — a tragic irony of human existence.
XV. Inter oves locum praesta et ab haedis me sequestra, statuens in parte dextra.
(Grant me a place among your sheep and kidnap me from goats, setting me on the right side).
Human desire to be counted among the saved and the righteous and the plea to be snatched from the damned, reveal an interesting internal conflict. A deeper part of us yearns to be drawn back into the safety and joy of belonging, held back only by our own resistance towards fully letting go of familiar suffering. The metaphoric separation becomes clearer in the upcoming verse, where the cursed and the blessed are named as such.
XVI. Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis, voca me cum benedictis
(When the cursed have been cursed, devoted to bitter flames, call me with the blessed).
Dicere is Latin for to speak. The benedictis are the group defined by good words that are being said about them — they are favoured by divine pronouncement. The maledictis are the group condemned by negative pronouncements leading to their consignment or addictis to the suffering, depicted symbolically as flames, often understood as a consequence of their separation from grace. However, the last part of the verse (“call me”) can also be seen as acknowledging the power of the speaker — and by extension, humanity — to pronounce the goodness in the one who’s caused voluntary or involuntary harm. In this sense, we are deeply dependent on each other’s grace, on our willingness to speak words of redemption and to offer a path away from the flames of suffering.
XVII. Oro supplex et acclinis, cor contritum quasi cinis: gere curam mei finis.
(I kneel inclined begging, heart shattered like ashes: take care of my end).
The physical bending suggests humility and recognition of lowliness, dependence and frailty. The heart shattered like ashes suggests an extreme transformation and fragmentation, perhaps to the point of lifelessness or a clear confrontation with one’s end, prompting a plea for divine concern regarding this symbolic death, rather than indifference. The enduring human desire for belonging manifests until the very end. When the divinity attends our end, positive transformation is implied.
XVIII. Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla ludicandus homo reus: huc ergo pace Deus: pie Iesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Amen
(That day of tears, when judged guilty man returns from the dust of the earth: spare him, God! Pitying Jesus grant him the rest. Amen).
The day of tears signifies not only a loss but also a gain. Two kinds of guilt emerge: anxiety-driven guilt, stemming from our human need for agency and control (we would rather believe we caused our misfortunes than admit powerlessness) and an understanding-driven guilt, rooted in empathy and morality, born from the realisation that our actions, regardless of intent, can harm others. On the day of tears, both guilts are prominent. The judgment, suffering, death and resurrection might represent a process of releasing anxiety and cultivating a deeper capacity for love.
Our upcoming performance will take place at the Aiud Penitentiary and is dedicated exclusively to those living behind those walls! Together with them, we will try to explore more deeply the feelings we so often experience when we take refuge in music: hope, freedom, sorrow, longing, despair, loneliness, communion, and more…