Text
Author unknown

First performance
Twentieth Sunday after Trinity,
3 November 1726

First performed on the Twentieth Sunday after Trinity in 1726, BWV 49 is one of the few cantatas that Bach lent a distinctive character and momentum by including an obbligato organ part. The addition of an oboe d’amore, then, is equally a nod to the libretto on the Song of Solomon and a choice that augments the registers of the organ – itself a quasi-wind instrument.

Bach puts the potential of the solo keyboard instrument straight to work in the introductory sinfonia, a setting based on an earlier work that he later used again as the final movement of his harpsichord concerto BWV 1053. Set in a sparkling E major with a lively waltz of ascending triads, the oboes, doubled by strings, dance in joyous anticipation of the royal wedding feast described in the Sunday gospel. The confident organ figures, meanwhile, impart a distinctly cheerful character – as though Bach, the pious jazz pianist, wanted to prove that praising God and total coolness can go hand in hand.

In the bass aria, too, the organ takes centre stage: while the left hand plays a continuo line, the right features circling figures that evoke the longing search described by the vocalist in the role of Jesus. In the alternating passages of vocal questions and attentive instrumental responses, the calls of the Saviour are charged with a scenic presence that will resonate differently with each individual listener.

Set to a shimmering string accompaniment, the following recitative opens the actual “dialogue”, the historical form named in the work’s title. Jesus, sung by the bass soloist, links the invitation to the wedding table with the revelation of his identity as the bridegroom of the Soul. In this setting, there is a poignant immediacy to the bride’s joyous disbelief at her role as the chosen one and to the bliss of the protagonists as they draw closer in an everfreer duet.

Bach sustains this sensitive realism throughout the soprano aria. Upon reflection, the bride (the Soul) understands Jesus’ wooing as an all-encompassing affirmation of her very being: she is “herrlich und schön” (glorious and fair) because she is loved – a liberating realisation that, thanks to the distinct timbral strands of her wedding robe spun by the violoncello piccolo und oboe d’amore, appears far more credible than the Biedermeier-era cliches at the heart of Robert Schumann’s 19th century Lieder cycle “Frauenliebe und -leben” (A Woman’s Life and Love), a work with a similarly structured text. In this aria, by contrast, the common Bach-era notion of Jesus as a courtly lover loses all overtones of pietistic intellectualism and becomes the origin of a life-affirming sensuality – not the smallest gift that Martin Luther, the former monk who rocked the foundations of abbeys and dismantled notions of bodily shame, gave to his church. That the upper instrumental voices and soprano part are syncopated and, as such, enter “too early” lends an impatient charm to this setting’s justified celebration of the self. It calls to mind the image of a young woman, perhaps Bach’s Anna Magdalena, twirling before a mirror in pride at her latest conquest, even if the middle section is given to a more sacred interpretation (“seines Heils Gerechtigkeit ist mein Schmuck und Ehrenkleid” – His salvations’ righteousness is my cloak of honour bright).

The references to the lovers’ rendezvous in heaven are reinforced in the following recitative. Here, the wedding feast has become the “Erlösungsmahl” (meal of salvation) that the Soul has earned through her decision to devote herself to Christ. Rarely has a profession of faith sounded both so tender and resolute as her declaration of “Hier komm ich, Jesu, lass mich ein” (Here I come, Jesus, let me in); when the Saviour, more in the role of a spiritual father, then responds with the promise of a crown of life that overcomes death, the cantata reaches its thematic conclusion.

Nevertheless, Bach and his librettist Birkmann still have a dazzling encore in store that returns the organ to the spotlight. Set in a dance-like 2⁄4-metre and accompanied by light orchestral chords, the aria and chorale features an upper part brimming with celebratory pride and shimmering ecstasy. When the Saviour states in reference to the Old Testament prophecy, “Ich hab dich je und je geliebet” (Thee have I loved with love eternal), he is joined by the soprano presentation of the chorale verse “Wie bin ich doch so herzlich froh” (How am I now so truly glad) – and Philipp Nicolai’s somewhat shopworn “Morgenstern” (morning star) hymn attains the end-of-days rapture that it always intended to convey.

In studying the Song of Solomon, generations of theologians and philosophers have struggled to translate sensual desire into divine spirituality without relinquishing its body-and-soul captivating essence. The master composer Bach, however, experienced in love and life, effortlessly achieves just that in this “Concerto für Organo amoroso”, conjuring music that entices the listener to join in both the cooing “Amen” of the soprano and the trusting “Ich komme bald” (I’m coming soon) of the bass. And why shouldn’t we just sing along?