The Text of the “Te Deum”

Imagine yourself to have traveled back in time to around 400 A.D. You’re in the Italian city of Milan, standing in the Basilica of Saint Lawrence, at this point a Roman Catholic church but showing definite signs of its early origins in the Roman Empire. Suddenly you hear a choir of monks start to sing a hymn (I almost wrote “an ancient hymn,” but of course to them it’s brand new) starting with the words “Te Deum.” ‘Hmmm,’ you might think. ‘I’ve sung those words myself in October 2024 with the Cherry Creek Chorale, my own wonderful choir. Cool!’  This (now) ancient hymn is usually dated to around 390 and seen as possibly written by either Saint Ambrose or Saint Augustine. Or perhaps someone else, for all we know. Whoever wrote it, however, surely knew what he (or she!) was doing. Some real heavy hitters over the centuries have taken a crack at it, with one of the most famous being Franz Joseph Haydn in around 1800.

Haydn was a tremendously prolific and popular composer. His output is astonishing: this evening I scrolled through the list of his compositions on Wikipedia, and honestly–I think it probably took me longer to do that than it took Haydn to write the piece. He produced a huge range of compositions, from symphonies to oratorios to string quartets to masses to operas to folk song arrangements to everything else you can possibly imagine. (If there had been MOOG synthesizers around back then, be assured that he’d have written a concerto or two using that instrument.) The composer spent 30 years under the patronage of the Hungarian Prince Esterhazy, who was extremely jealous of Haydn’s time. The patronage was therefore both a blessing and a curse: Haydn had an assured income, but he was also limited in his ability to travel and to take on other commissions. The prince was finally persuaded, however, to allow Haydn to fulfill the request from the Austrian Empress Maria Theresa to write her a setting of the “Te Deum.”

I will leave the task of musical analysis to others, whether of Haydn’s setting or anyone else’s. Here I want to focus on textual meaning, an area that often gets neglected in the rush and heat of the battle as singers frantically learn notes and rhythm. A great quotation from the coloratura soprano Rachel Duckett supports my own thesis that singers should never just sing syllables: ““First of all, I like to look at the text, making sure I translate every word, word-for-word, so that I know exactly what I’m saying,” So that’s what I’m doing below, interleaving Latin and English so that you can see how the meanings match up. The translation therefore won’t be something singable and smooth, but such is not my goal. Also, without (I hope) trying the patience of my readers too much, I include some additional commentary on words I find interesting. Here goes:

Te     Deum laudamus: te      Dominum confitemur
You, God,   we praise;   You, Lord,          we confess [that]
Te     aeternum patrem, omnis terra veneratur
You, eternal      Father,   all        earth venerates or worships.

Note that “confitemur” has the same root as “confide.” If you confide in someone, you’re often confessing something to that person.

Tibi      omnes  Angeli:      tibi      caeli              et    universae potestates
To you all        the angels, to you the heavens and universal  powers,
Tibi      cherubim  et    seraphim, incessabili        voce   proclamant:
To you cherubim and seraphim   with incessant voice proclaim or cry:
“Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth
“Holy,      Holy,        Holy,     Lord         God   of Hosts.
Pleni  sunt caeli            et     terra       maiestatis                gloriae        tuae.”
Filled are the heavens and the earth [with the] majesty of the glory of you.”

The first question to be asked about this section is, “Does the Latin word tibi have anything to do with your tibia?” No. Your shinbone is named after an ancient Greek wind instrument, sort of like a flute. So what does “tibi” mean? Basically, “to you.”

The personages who praise God are angels, and two types in particular are named: cherubim and seraphim. If you’re thinking of those beautiful Christmas angels with trumpets or those adorable little plump childlike cherubs, well, think again. Angels are not cute! There’s a reason why the shepherds to whom the heavenly host appeared to announce the birth of the Christ child had to be reassured with a “fear not!” (Although perhaps any sudden appearance of beings in the middle of the night sky would cause a bit of a tremor regardless of their cuteness factor.) I would love to dive deeply into angelology, but perhaps your patience for such things is limited. Here’s a taste: cherubim have four wings and four faces– that of a man, a lion, an ox, and an eagle—and seraphim have six wings. The job of both types is to praise God, but they have other roles. So, for instance, cherubim and a flaming sword were placed at the entrance of the Garden of Eden to keep Adam and Eve out after they’d fallen. And the seraphim whom Isaiah sees in his great vision of the holiness of God not only fly and sing praise but also purify the prophet’s lips/mouth with a flaming coal from the altar. So both of these angel types are associated in flame in some way. I love that there’s a choral society called “Seraphic Fire.”

One more fascinating word in this stanza: “Sabaoth.” Choirs are often very concerned with getting the pronunciation correct: it’s “sah-bah-oat” in ecclesiastical Latin. (That’s my spelling, not that of the IPA, International Phonetic Alphabet, and not anything to do with India Pale Ale either, just to be clear.) Let’s see now, where were we? Oh yes—what does “Sabaoth” mean? It has nothing to do with the Sabbath. Here’s a good definition from an online dictionary: “the transliteration of the Hebrew word tsebha’oth [צבאות] meaning ‘hosts,’ ‘armies.’ It may designate Jehovah as either (1) God of the armies of earth, or (2) God of the armies of the stars, or (3) God of the unseen armies of angels; or perhaps it may include all these ideas.” (Easton’s Bible Dictionary)

Te    gloriosus      Apostolorum chorus
You the glorious apostolic         choir,
Te    Prophetarum laudabilis       numerus
You the prophets   praiseworthy and numerous,
Te    Martyrum  candidatus       laudat        exercitus
You the martyrs in white robes [all] praise [as an] exercised or disciplined force
Te              per               orbem       terrarum     sancta        confitetur Ecclesia:
You [are] throughout the globe of the world in holiness confessed  [by] the church,
Patrem immensae maiestatis;
Father of immense majesty;
Venerandum                                                 tuum verum et  unicum             Filium;
The one to be venerated or worshipped, your  true     and unique or only Son,
Sanctum        quoque  Paraclitum     Spiritum
The holy one likewise the Paraclete, the Spirit.

This stanza is pretty straightforward until the third line, when we get to the “candid martyrs,” as one might call them. “Candid,” as we use it today, means “sincere” or “open,” and it comes from the Latin “candidus,” meaning “white, shining, or clear.” If you add an extra syllable you get the word in the text, “candidatus,” meaning “dressed in white.” The Christian New Testament Book of Revelation is the source for this image, with those who have been murdered for their faith in white robes. But you may have thought that this word sounds an awful lot like “candidate,” and you’d be right, because guess what? Candidates for office in Rome, especially those for the Senate, had to dress in . . . white togas.

The second great word is in the last line of the verse, “Paraclitum,” rendered in English as “Paraclete.” It’s describing the Holy Spirit, the third person of the Trinity, and it means “Comforter” or “Helper.”

Tu          rex           gloriae, Christe:
You are the king of glory, O Christ:
Tu    Patris             sempiternus es    Filius
You of the Father everlastingly are the Son.
Tu,   ad liberandum suscepturus             hominem,
You the liberation     undertook [of, for] man.
Non horruisti                                         Virginis uterum
[You] did not abhor, reject or dread the Virgin’s uterus or womb..
Tu, devicto     mortis aculeo
You defeated death’s sting.
Aperuisti            credentibus regna            caelorum
[You] did open to believers the kingdom of heaven.
Tu   ad dexteram           Dei       sedes, in gloria      Patris
You at the right [hand] of God  sit       in the glory of the Father.

What on earth is this business about “You [Jesus] did not abhor the Virgin’s womb”? That wording seems a bit harsh, especially since we use the word “abhor” today as a synonym for “hate” or “detest.” Note, however, that I listed “dread” as one of the synonyms above. The line emphasizes a central tenet of Christian doctrine: the willing incarnation, that is, taking on flesh, of Christ. The idea is that Christ did not consider it demeaning to be carried within Mary’s womb and then be born as an infant. You may not have ever sung this verse from “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful”:–“God from God, light from light eternal; Lo, he abhors not the Virgin’s womb” because it’s usually not included in the regular English-language hymnals. I’ve run into a few modern sources that are pretty horrified by this wording, but it’s not at all meant as a slam against the Virgin Mary and her womb. Instead, it echoes a passage in the New Testament book of Philippians: “When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process.” (Phil. 2:7-8 The Message)

I’m reasonably sure that everyone reading this post knows that right and left hands have specific cultural and historical connotations, so the Latin “dexterum” doesn’t mean “deft and handy” but “right hand.” You can find any number of articles on this subject, but for my purposes here it’s enough to point out that most people are right-handed. Thus someone’s right hand, or right side, was seen as the place of prominence and power.

Judex       crederis               esse   venturus
As Judge you are believed to be coming or returning.
Te    ergo         quaesumus,            tuis   famulis subveni:
You therefore we beseech or beg Your servants to assist
Quos                      pretioso  sanguine redemisti
Whom [by your] precious  blood        you have redeemed.
Aeterna    fac               cum                        sanctis      tuis        in gloria numerari
Eternally make them with or as part of the saints of yours in glory numbered.
Salvum     fac     populum tuum,     Domine,
Salvation grant to people of yours, Lord,
Et     benedic hereditati           tuae.
And bless      the inheritance that is yours.
Et    rege eos,              et    extolle              illos   usque in aeternum
And rule over them, and exalt or praise them even   in eternity
Per           singulos       dies benedicimus te:
Through every single day we bless          you:
Et     laudamus nomen      tuum  in saeculum, et   in saeculum saeculi
And we praise   the name of you forever,         and forever and ever.

Do you see the English word “sequence” in “saeculum” or “saeculi”? Well, you should! One of its meanings is “age, time, the times, an era”—in other words, a long sequence of time.

Dignare,               Domine, die isto                                sine        peccato nos custodire
Deem it worthy, Lord,       today this [this very day] without sin          us    to preserve or keep.
Miserere      nostri, Domine, miserere     nostri
Have mercy on us, O Lord,   have mercy on us.
Fiat                           misericordia tua,   Domine, super     nos
Let it be done that mercy             your, Lord,       be upon us.
Quemadmodum speravimus       in te
Even as                 we have hoped in you.
In te,     Domine, speravi:          non             confundar                                   in aeternum
In you, Lord,       have I hoped: let me not be confounded or condemned in eternity.

I’ve always loved the Latin word for mercy: “misericordia,” literally, “pity from the heart.” And if you think that “miserere” seems to bear a strong resemblance to “misery,” well, you’d be correct. If I am miserable or wretched then I need mercy or pity. The two ideas seems to have gotten intertwined: the miserable situation and the hoped-for response.

And, finally, what about “confundar”? The speaker asks that God’s mercy result in his not being “confounded” in eternity. If you think this word means “confused,” you’re right. I was quite surprised when I looked up the etymology of this word: it means “pour together.” (“Con” means “with” and “fundō” means “pour.”) In other words, it’s a mingling of things that shouldn’t be. If I’m reading the language correctly, then, the speaker is asking that he not be put in among those with whom he doesn’t belong, those who are not just and righteous.

I hope the foregoing has deepened your understanding of this hymn, in whatever setting you sing it or hear it. Here are just a couple of them:

First, a performance in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome of at least a version of the Gregorian chant setting. complete with robes and processions and the great organ. The original performances of the piece would not have had any accompaniment, of course. I couldn’t find a version with monks in hoods singing on their own, so you’ll have to put up with all these ceremonial trappings. So sorry!

Then a lovely, light setting by Mozart:

And then perhaps the most-performed version, by Franz Joseph Haydn in a fabulous performance that’s a little low-def and glitchy. The price you have to pay, I guess:

copyright 2024 Debi Simons