Hallelujah from the Ruins

In 1741, George Frideric Handel was a broken man. Four years earlier, a stroke had left his right hand partially paralyzed. His London operas were failing. His debts were mounting. At fifty-six, it seemed his career was finished.

Then a friend invited him to set to music a libretto drawn entirely from Scripture — passages about the promised Messiah, the suffering servant, the risen Lord. Handel accepted, sat down at his desk, and for twenty-three days barely left his room.

When he finally emerged, he had completed the entire Messiah — 259 pages of music, from overture to final chorus. Those who visited during those weeks reported finding him weeping over the manuscript pages. Whether the tears came from exhaustion, wonder, or grief, only Handel knew.

The "Hallelujah" chorus that closes Part II has moved audiences for nearly three centuries. The tradition of standing when it begins traces back to the work's earliest performances — audiences recognizing in that cascade of voices something that demands to be received on one's feet.