O, Death
O, Death
Won’t you spare me over til another year
Well what is this that I can't see
With ice cold hands takin’ hold of me
Well I am death, none can excel
I’ll open the door to heaven or hell
Whoa, death someone would pray
Could you wait to call me another day
A few weeks ago 85-year-old Ralph Stanley took the stage at the Birchmere Theatre in Alexandria, Va., with his Clinch Mountain Boys. The gospel and bluegrass legend received popular acclaim for his musical contribution to the film O Brother, Where Art Thou, but has been touring and performing practically his whole life.
Lisa Cole Smith
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As this frail man in his rhinestone studded suit stepped up to the microphone to sing in his ancient yet powerful voice, it felt as if we, the audience, were having a unique, perhaps even sacred, experience. Most of the crowd wasn’t even born when he began his career and it felt as if we were experiencing a bit of living history in this intimate venue. But, what made it sacred was the reality that we could possibly be one of the last audiences to see him perform.
On stage, Ralph Stanley’s humor and stamina showed his love for performance. At one point he made everyone, including the band, laugh by breaking into a jig. At least, I’m pretty sure that was the intent. In reality it was a slight repeated shrugging of the shoulders and a shifting from one foot to the other. But I’m pretty sure his heart was dancing.
Despite his showmanship I couldn’t help thinking that on some level he must have an ever present awareness of mortality. If nothing else, in every show he must perform one of his most popular songs, O, Death. The night I saw Stanley the band left the stage, the lights dimmed and he stepped into a spotlight where he sang a cappella his mournful rendition of the song. It was chilling and so incredibly intimate. I felt like I shouldn’t be watching—like I had just stumbled into his bedroom as he stood in front of the mirror looking deep into his own eyes, questioning and pleading with his own soul to give him more time.
The song is an old mountain dirge whose author is unknown and has been sung in Appalachia by both performers and mourners since before anyone can remember. It is a conversation between a man and death. The man pleads to be spared for another year, but death is not satisfied with anything but the life for which he has come. Something about Stanley’s version is filled with mystery, making it feel like an otherworldly connection. His voice is haunting, like a Native American medicine man calling on tribal spirits or mourning loss. As I listened I couldn’t help but wonder things that were none of my business. What does Ralph Stanley think about as he sings this song night after night? Does he think of people he has lost? Does he think of his brother and former stage partner who died in 1966? How does the amount of loss, inevitable at his age, affect his outlook on life, relationships and faith? Is he, like me, wondering if this could be his last performance? Does he wonder if we are all wondering that, too?
Watching Ralph Stanley sing, alone on a dark, empty stage, I felt he was incredibly brave and wise. I felt as if he were staring into the face of the unknown completely at peace. We, the audience, were in rapt attention listening not only to the words, but to his voice intoning a sense of connection with things bigger than us, a recognition that any moment that leads into another is a successful negotiation with death to spare us over to another day.
Ralph Stanley was singing for all of us because none of us knows when our last performance will be either. It was as if he were a priest praying on our behalf. This man full of years, of faith, of love and of music was the perfect person to help us stare our own mortality in the face squarely and without fear, trusting Providence for a chance to sing one more song. And when he was finished and the lights came up we cheered and felt relieved.
Lisa Cole Smith ([email protected]) is pastor of Convergence: a Creative Community of Faith, a Baptist congregation in Alexandria, Va.