Sometimes I miss Protestant singing

I don't mean to be, well, mean.  But since I've been a Catholic, I admit there are times when I miss the old Protestant, particularly the old time Evangelical, hymnals.  It just seems like folks in our parish - in fact in just about every parish I've visited so far - are scared to sing.  Oh some do, and it's not a slight at those who don't.  Perhaps it's because the music issue just has a single line for the main melody in each song.  Protestant hymnals broke those babies into four parts, and you could take your pick.  Even if the congregation wasn't trained - and God love them, you had those you could tell weren't - there was still that harmonizing that not only flushed out the depth of a hymn, but almost seemed to encourage a more robust vocalizing on the part of the singers.  I'm sure having a music leader in front of the congregation, which was common in all but the tiniest churches, didn't hurt either.

Again, I'm not fussing.  I love various parts of Catholic music, the chant, the better parts of the traditionally rich and powerful hymns of yesteryear.  And I certainly had things to say about the superficial and shallow trend that many newer songs in the Protestant world were following.  But sometimes, I admit I would like to hear a good old four part singing of some of the greater hymns of Protestantism.  You hear those, and you can't help but feel moved in the Spirit.  Especially if it's one of the all-time greats like this gem, famously penned in the midst of tragedy and despair:
It Is Well With My Soul

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Refrain:
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But Lord, 'tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
Horatio Spafford