One of the joys of discovering Medieval and Renaissance music is finding the same text—often a Biblical text—used over and over again by different composers throughout the centuries. You can get a thrilling sense of how the Christian faith has been lived and experienced through art and through time when you listen to Early Music.
Today is the day the Church traditionally celebrates Ephiphany: the arrival of the Magi to worship Christ. This event is significant not only because of the part it plays in the narrative of Jesus' birth, life, and death, but also because it is the first time we see the Gospel going out to the gentiles (the Magi did not belong to the nation of Israel).
So today, I want to share three different musical settings (with recordings you can listen to) of Matthew 2:10-11:
Videntes stellam magi gavisi sunt gaudio magno:
Seeing the star, the Magi rejoiced with great joy,
et intrantes domum,
and entering the house,
invenerunt puerum, cum Maria, matre eius,
they found the child, with Mary his mother,
et procidentes adoraverunt eum.
and falling forward they worshipped him.
Et apertis thesauris suis,
And having opened their treasure chests,
obtulerunt ei munera:
they offered him gifts:
aurum, thus et myrrham.
gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
Matthew 2:10-11
(Vulgate with literal translation of the Latin)
First Version: Medieval Chant
This version of the text was used as an antiphon—a short refrain that the congregation would sing responsively before and after the chanting of a Psalm. Unique antiphons were designated for every day of the year, the texts typically coming from the Psalms themselves, except on major feast days (such as Epiphany), when the texts would come from another, holiday-specific portion of Scripture or from sacred poetry.
Because the antiphons are short responses of only a few lines, in the recording below you will hear a condensed version of Matthew 2:10-11: “Videntes stellam Magi gavisi sunt gaudio magno, et intrantes domum obtulerunt Domino aurum, thus et myrrham” (Seeing the star, the Magi rejoiced with great joy, and entering the house they offered the Lord gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.)
We know that this antiphon was sung at Vespers (the evening service) on Epiphany. So as you listen, you can imagine the music arising out of the darkness and stillness of evening worship.
What’s remarkable in this piece? The crystalline sound, direct but sweet; the simple melody that rises to a climax and falls again. The music gives a sense of wholeness and holiness, of the goodness and order of things—for the moment in time that holds the Incarnate Christ is especially good and right—inviting us to follow in the footsteps of the Magi as we marvel and worship.
And the movement of the chant tells a story that dramatizes the text. It begins low and rises, lifting upward to the climax at 0:14 of “intrantes domum” (entering the house)—the first syllable of “domum” further emphasized with a melisma (one syllable extended over several notes)—to highlight the moment when the Magi came into the physical, literal presence of God.
And then the melody descends again, the details of gold, frankincense, and myrrh mentioned almost as an afterthought. The true splendor of this text, according to the chant, is the presence of Christ in the world, not the shiny, kingly gifts he received.
Second Version: Renaissance Polyphony
And now, prepare yourself for something very different!
Whereas medieval chant is monophonic (one line of melody with no harmony), composers of the later Middle Ages introduced an innovation that would forever change the course of music: polyphony. Instead of writing one melodic line, it became possible to coordinate many—three, four, eight—separate lines of music that would interact, overlap, and respond to each other in ways that are astonishingly complex and mesmerizingly beautiful.
This next setting of “Videntes stellam” is a motet by Italian composer Orlande de Lassus (1532-1594) for five voices—so you will essentially hear (and see, if you watch the video) five separate melodies coordinated into one masterful whole. In case you’re wondering, this piece would not have been sung congregationally, but rather performed as “special music” (not part of the Mass proper) by a trained choir.
The piece, like the Medieval chant, opens in darkness and quiet. We hear at first only one low note that soon multiplies into many rising, swirling voices that give a sense of movement and travel—and if we follow the rising notes high enough, we might even catch a glimpse of the night sky with its dizzying array of constellations and the happy sight of the one most significant star in their midst.
As in the chant, Lassus places special emphasis on the word “domum” (the house) at 0:43, where the mood of the piece suddenly changes, the key suddenly becoming minor. It’s as if we enter the house with the Magi, leaving the sublime heavens and coming under the shadow of a roof and into the awesome presence of Christ.
At 1:20 the tone changes again, becoming formal, ceremonial, regal, and processional, as the Magi fall on their knees. At 1:30 they worship—“adoraverunt eum”—and we are invited to participate in the gravitas and reverence, the solemnity and sanctity of their worship, which ends with a pause of awed silence that sounds for all the world like the end of the motet (1:55).
But then! As if a coda or firework finale, the wonder of the swirling voices return, mirroring the opening of star and heavens, as the Magi present their gifts. The point (1:58) when they open their treasures comes just over halfway through the motet, so Lassus embroiders, elaborates, and extends these last three lines of the text more than any other part of the text. The effect is almost cinematic, a zooming in and out, a series of replays that slide into slow motion and speed up again at the next repetition.
Third Version: Renaissance Polyphony (again!)
Our final version of “Videntes stellam” is another example of Renaissance polyphony—in fact, another motet—written by Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina (1525-1584). Whereas Lassus’ version coordinated five voices, Palestrina’s employs a double choir of EIGHT voices. It is a musical marvel and a feast for the ears.
Unlike the chant and previous motet version, this motet begins high rather than low. It’s as if we see stars from the beginning and never cease to see them: it’s an explosion of sound without much narrative movement.
There are, however, some lovely examples of text painting. Starting at 1:00 the word “procidentes” (bowing down) is dramatized as the lines of melody drop in a cascade. We also hear several repetitions of the motif “apertis” (having opened) beginning at 1:22—three long notes, as if the music separates each syllable, opening the word as wide as it can open.
Like Lassus, Palestrina devotes more time to elaboration of the gift giving, which begins in the precise middle of the motet, than to any other portion of text. At 2:13 the recital of gifts—“aurum, thus, et myrrham”—takes on a dance-like quality with four repetitions that flow the one into the other (the first and last syllables “au” and “am” are laid on top of each other). You can almost see the gifts themselves personified, given feet, joining hands, and participating in worship.
What Palestrina’s motet loses in crystalline directness (compared to the chant) and narrative movement (compared to Lassus) it gains in textural richness. We hear the jubilation, ecstasy, and wild joy of celebration. This is the sumptuous side of sanctity, the marriage feast of the Lamb, the moment when we see Christ in all his resplendent kingly glory and worship him with our whole being.
And with that, I wish all our readers a blessed Epiphany!