The song end of the great hymn spectrum produces two opposite sights. To see both you have to turn through a full 180 degrees.
A whole range of text and tunes, when you ask their writers and composers (who are usually the same anyway), turn out to be provided by direct divine gifting. If there ever was a typewriter theory of inspiration it seems to be not so much the prophets but the songwriters who are the beneficiaries, or at least the agents. 'The Lord gave me this song.' 'I just received the music as we were in prayer together.' This, of course, instantly removes the work from the crude paws of the critic; if the Lord wishes to produce bad grammar and worse doctrine, who are we to complain?
Then switch over to the other side. Here you discover that all this is one vast illusion, or rather, a Satanic delusion. The whole shelf-ful of worship-song books, the whole pile of duly-licensed acetates, is a sign of the worldly take-over of the professing church, cunningly engineered by the evil one himself. If you so much as dip your toe into this sea of pollution, you not only cover yourself with filth, but are guilty of promoting a programme from the pit, and subsidising the father of lies.
