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Welcome to Hyperion Records, an independent British classical label devoted to presenting high-quality recordings of music of all styles and from all periods from the twelfth century to the twenty-first.
Hyperion offers both CDs, and downloads in a number of formats. The site is also available in several languages.
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Studio Master: CKD382Download onlyStudio Master FLAC & ALAC downloads available
Britain's most exciting young sextet returns with an album that's bursting with passion, rapture and the sheer magic and madness of falling in love. Featuring new works by Stephen Hough and the eternally classic Liebeslieder Waltzer by Bra ...» More
All shall be well!
He shewed me a little thing
A hazel nut in the palm of my hand.
It was round as a ball.
What may this be?
It is all that is made.
I marvelled how it might last
For me thought it might suddenly have fallen
To naught for littleness.
Lasteth and ever shall last,
For God loveth it.
And all thing have being through the love of God.
Love was His meaning.
Who shewed it thee? Love!
What shewed He thee? Love!
Wherefore shewed He thee? (For Love!)
Ere God made us He loved us, which love was
Never slacked nor ever shall be.
See! I am God.
See! I am in all things.
See! I do all things.
See! I lift never my hands off my works,
Nor ever shall without end.
How can any thing be amiss?
All shall be well.
And all shall be well.
And all manner of things shall be well.
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they’re taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
‘Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time ‘twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn’t bad enough hand flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he’s taken and a pretty price he’s paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they’ve pulled the beggar’s hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they’re haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.
Now ‘tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.