COMFORT, COMFORT
ADVENT EP
About the Album and its roots
Advent is a time of watching, waiting, and anticipating the coming of Christ. The Advent lectionary resounds with the deep longing cries of the Hebrew prophets, John the Baptist's preaching that the Lord is near, and the first and second coming of Christ. We join Israel as they waited for the coming of the messiah and we also wait and watch with great hope for Christ’s return. Advent has always felt a bit like a long breath in the cold winter air between promise and fulfillment. It’s the time when we learn again how to hope in the dark, and to listen for the voice that cries in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord.”
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For our family, Advent 2024 carried that wilderness in a very real way. After a long year of radiation, chemotherapy, and major surgery on Jason’s primary tumor — and a brief window of hope that cancer might be a word behind us — we learned that a new tumor had developed in his liver. The news came with all the dread and frailty such words bear. While we were stringing lights and trimming trees with our four boys, I was also learning the hard lesson of what it means to not give way to fear, though worry lingers heavy in the air.
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That line rattled around in my head for a week or so and eventually became the bridge to Comfort, Comfort. It wasn’t written as a declaration of brave defiance, but as a trembling trust that even here, in uncertainty, Christ is near — and He will accomplish His purposes.
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Isaiah’s words began rattling around in my head “Comfort, comfort ye my people, says your God”…There is still a tender word to come. Here amidst the deep valley, the God of the Highest Heaven, gave me songs in the night (Job 35:10), for he indeed has gone to far greater depths.
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I Wait was written in the hospital waiting room during Advent of 2023, shortly after Jason’s diagnosis. The words came quietly, from the breathless waiting outside the radiation room, and the desperate longing to see the Lord’s hand in the dark:
I wait for the Lord, in the watches of the night, his eye is on me.
I wait for the Lord, in the longing, in the dark his light is still seen.
So then come, Lord Jesus, healing Shepherd
Far as the curse is found, oh make us whole.
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That song became the sound of that season — a watchman’s prayer, a heartbeat of faith that refuses to despair. It reminded me that waiting is not passive; it is the posture of those who trust that God is at work for our highest good, even when the outcome is hidden.
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That promise met me in hospital corridors and in the many sleepless hours before dawn. I began to understand that the comfort of God is not the absence of sorrow, but His presence within it — the Shepherd who gathers His lambs close to His heart, who walks with His people through the valley of the shadow.
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This second year of chemotherapy has perhaps been darker than the first, but the Lord’s tender care has been ever nearer. We will continue treatment through this Advent, in hope that the dosage may be lessened in the new year.
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Through it all, our church family has embodied that comfort. They have prayed with us, sung with us, held our boys, and reminded us again and again that the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. And so, I am thankful more than ever that God has ordained the church to be the means through which we walk out a life of faith. And I am thankful that the church ordained this season of Advent- where we wait, watch, prepare, and repent. Advent reminds us that the Light does not stand apart from the darkness; for the Light of the World has broken through and pierced it. Christ has come into the world once, and He will come again — to judge, to heal, and to make all things new. Our waiting is not empty; it is full of His promises and the sure hope that the story ends in glory.
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Comfort, Comfort was written from that place — vigil songs for a waiting people. For even here, where worry lingers heavy in the air, we will not give way to fear. And soon, we will sing together, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”
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These vigil songs form a small Advent album called “Comfort, Comfort” which are available now on Apple Music, Spotify, Pandora, Bandcamp, Amazon Music, and other major streaming platforms.
About the songs.
Behold the Bridegroom Cometh
“Behold, the Bridegroom cometh” began as a meditation on Christina Rossetti’s Advent Sunday, a poem that holds together two movements at the heart of Advent: the quiet ache of waiting and the fierce, joyful hope of Christ’s return. Her language is stark and tender all at once—lamps lit in the darkness, a world waking at midnight, and the Bridegroom coming to gather His people.
I set the text to the minor-key melody of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” a tune whose familiar contours carry a surprising solemnity when paired with Rossetti’s imagery. The melody’s old, almost plaintive character seemed to make space for that tension Advent always asks of us: watching, longing, and rejoicing all at once.
The hymn follows Rossetti’s sequence—midnight black as pitch, the crowing of the cock, the gathering of rich and poor alike—yet it turns its gaze steadily toward the coming Christ. The final lines root that hope in the gospel itself: the Bridegroom is the One whose hands and side the Bride already knows, for God Emmanuel came first in humility before He will come again in glory.
My prayer is that this song gives voice to that ancient Advent cry—
“Behold, the Bridegroom cometh”—
a reminder that even in the deepest night, the Church keeps her lamps lit, confident in the comfort and joy of the One who is coming to make all things new.
Comfort, Comfort
“Comfort, Comfort” began with the ancient cry of Isaiah 40—the moment when God speaks directly into Israel’s weariness and exile: “Comfort, comfort ye my people, says your God.” It is a word that does not ignore sorrow or minimize the weight of sin and suffering. Instead, it moves toward them with tenderness. It promises that “the glory of the Lord will be revealed,” that what is hidden will be made known, and that God Himself will come to dwell with His people.
At the heart of this song is the invitation to “deeply heed the prophet’s voice.” Advent is a season shaped by listening—listening to the prophets, to creation’s groaning, and to the quiet assurances of the God who draws near. Isaiah’s words teach us how to wait: not with sentimentality or escapism, but with a steady hope that looks for God in the very places where fear and frailty press close.
The song took shape during a season when those pressures felt unavoidably real—a time marked by medical appointments, hard news, and the fragile mixture of ordinary life and deep uncertainty. In that setting, a simple line began to echo: “We don’t give way to fear…” Not because fear is absent, but because it does not have the final say. Advent reminds us that our hope rests not in our own strength but in the nearness of Emmanuel.
As the lyrics unfolded, Isaiah’s proclamation became a lifeline: There is still a tender word to come. The prophets insist that the story is not over; the valley is not the end; the grave is not the final word. The God who descended into the deepest depths gives His people “songs in the night” (Job 35:10)—melodies formed in the dark that testify to His faithfulness.
“Comfort, Comfort” is written for anyone who finds themselves in that tension between promise and fulfillment—between longing and joy, fear and trust. It is a song for Advent’s in-between space, when creation sighs for redemption and the Church lifts her eyes to the One who has come and will come again.
My hope is that these words help us listen more closely to Isaiah’s voice, and through him, to the voice of the Lord Himself—the God who comforts His people, draws near in Christ, and promises that all flesh shall see His glory revealed.
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I Wait
“I Wait” echoes the cry of Psalm 130: “My soul waits for the Lord, more than watchmen for the morning.” That psalm gives language to a kind of waiting that is active, expectant, and honest — the kind of waiting that strains its eyes toward the horizon even when the night feels unbearably long. This song took shape in that posture. It leans into the longing, not to magnify the darkness, but to remind us that the Lord meets His people precisely there. His eye is upon us, His light is still seen in the shadows, and His victory is already moving toward us like the first glimmer of dawn.
Throughout the song, phrases from beloved Christmas hymns are woven into the melody — names and titles the Church has sung for centuries: Light of the Nations, Dayspring from on high, Healing Shepherd, Emmanuel. They rise like ancient prayers, gathering up our deepest longings for justice, healing, and the restoration of all things. Advent teaches us to pray these names not as wishful thinking, but as confident hope rooted in the character of the God who comes.
“I Wait” was written during Advent 2023 in a hospital waiting room, in the breathless hours following Jason’s diagnosis — a moment suspended between fear and faith, where every question felt painfully sharp and nothing seemed certain. In that space, the words became a quiet reminder that waiting is never passive for the people of God. It is a steadfast hope, anchored not in outcomes but in the presence of the One who enters our darkness, keeps watch with us, and will one day make all things new.
The song is offered for anyone who finds themselves in that same tension — longing for morning while standing in the night. May it strengthen those who wait, steady trembling hearts, and draw us again to the God who comes near.
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Good News
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“Good News” is a setting of a Christmas text by Martin Luther — a hymn that brims with the wonder of the Incarnation and the nearness of God’s mercy. Luther wrote these verses for the Church’s celebration of Christ’s birth, giving voice to the truth that the eternal Son has come in humility to dwell with His people. His words invite us to adore the Christ-child not with sentimentality, but with the deep joy that flows from the gospel itself.
For this project, the hymn is paired with a new melody shaped around the familiar contours of the American tune commonly associated with “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” That melody’s quiet simplicity — reflective, tender, and rooted in a tradition of Christmas storytelling — provides a gentle foundation for Luther’s text. The result is both new and familiar: a fresh musical setting that carries the warmth of well-loved carols while allowing Luther’s words to shine with clarity.
The heart of the hymn is the announcement of the angel: good news for all people, breaking into the ordinary world with heavenly light. Luther’s text lingers on that miracle — that God Most High chose the lowly crib, the humble mother, the quiet night, and the fragile flesh of a newborn to begin His redeeming work. In singing it, we join the shepherds who hurried to behold the Child, the angels whose chorus split the sky, and the Church across centuries who have gathered around this mystery with awe.
This setting is an invitation to receive the gospel as both ancient and ever-new: a proclamation of God’s nearness, His kindness, and His steadfast love revealed in Jesus Christ. May it help the Church sing the good news with fresh gratitude — that unto us a Savior is born, Christ the Lord.
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