The Composer They Counted Out

In the autumn of 1741, George Frideric Handel was a ruined man. Four years earlier, a stroke had paralyzed his right side. London's opera houses had turned their backs on him. Creditors circled. Critics declared his career finished. At fifty-six, the once-celebrated composer seemed destined to fade into obscurity — a stone the builders of the music world had thoroughly rejected.

Then a libretto arrived from Charles Jennens, assembled entirely from Scripture. Something seized Handel. For twenty-four extraordinary days, he barely ate or slept, filling page after page with music that seemed to pour through him rather than from him. His servant reportedly found him weeping over the "Hallelujah" chorus, saying, "I did think I did see all Heaven before me, and the great God Himself."

The result was Messiah — a work that has never left the repertoire in nearly three centuries. The man London had discarded created what many consider the cornerstone of sacred choral music. Kings would stand at its climax. Millions would hear the gospel proclaimed through its notes.

Psalm 118 knows this pattern well. "I was pushed hard, so that I was falling, but the Lord helped me." The psalmist who faced death lived to declare God's works. The stone flung aside by the builders became the very cornerstone. This is always how the Almighty operates — taking what the world discards and making it foundational. "This is the Lord's doing," the psalm declares, "and it is marvelous in our eyes."