The Composer London Had Discarded

In the spring of 1741, George Frideric Handel was a ruined man. At fifty-six, partially paralyzed from a stroke, buried in debt, and mocked by London critics who declared his music passé, he had every reason to believe his life's work was over. His operas played to empty houses. Creditors circled. One newspaper quipped that Handel was "done."

Then his friend Charles Jennens delivered a libretto — a collection of scripture passages woven together, telling the story of the Messiah. Handel shut himself in his rooms at 25 Brook Street and began to compose. For twenty-four days he barely ate or slept, pouring the whole of his broken life into the music. His servant found him weeping over the manuscript, the ink still wet on the "Hallelujah Chorus." "I did think I did see all Heaven before me," Handel said, "and the great God Himself."

When Messiah premiered in Dublin on April 13, 1742, the audience sat stunned. The man London had thrown away had produced the most enduring work of sacred music in the Western world.

Psalm 118 knows this pattern by heart. "The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone." The Lord specializes in taking what the world discards — broken composers, failed leaders, overlooked lives — and making them the very foundation of something eternal. The music that poured out of Handel's suffering still echoes in sanctuaries three centuries later, because God's steadfast love truly endures forever. This is the day the Lord has made. Even the days of ruin.