Guy Penrod Remembers Robert Redford with a Hymn of Farewell
The chapel was cloaked in reverence, its silence thick with grief and gratitude. Soft light streamed through tall windows, falling gently across rows of mourners who had gathered to say goodbye to one of the greats—Robert Redford, Oscar-winning director and star of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, who had passed away at the age of 89.
At the front, Redford’s casket rested beneath a blanket of white lilies and roses, their fragrance lingering in the hushed air. Around it, family, friends, colleagues, and admirers sat motionless, each person carrying their own private memories of a man whose work had shaped both cinema and culture for more than six decades.
Then, into that silence, stepped Guy Penrod. With his silver hair falling to his shoulders, his tall frame carrying both dignity and humility, and his signature baritone voice waiting to be released, he was a presence that brought both comfort and gravity. Known for his years as the lead singer of the Gaither Vocal Band, Guy had long been a voice of hope for millions through gospel music. On this day, his song was not meant for performance—it was meant for remembrance, for prayer, for farewell.
As he moved to the front, the room seemed to lean toward him. He carried no sheet of music, no accompaniment. He simply bowed his head, closed his eyes, and allowed the weight of the moment to guide him. Then, with a breath that trembled under the burden of sorrow, Guy began to sing.
His voice—deep, warm, resonant—rose into the stillness. It was a hymn of hope, its melody familiar yet transformed by the emotion that pressed against every note. The first line carried through the chapel like a blessing, steady and unwavering. By the second, many in the room had already bowed their heads, some with tears streaming down their faces.
The hymn was not sung for applause. It was sung as offering. Each phrase carried the ache of loss and the gratitude of memory. Guy’s baritone, so often associated with joy and celebration, now trembled with reverence, as though he were singing not to the mourners but directly to Redford himself.
For those present, it felt like two worlds meeting—Hollywood and gospel, film and faith. Redford, who had used his art to tell stories of humanity, justice, and love, was being remembered by a voice that had long carried the truths of faith and eternity. Together, they formed a harmony of legacy, one man remembered through the song of another.
As Guy sang, images seemed to flood the memories of those gathered. Redford as the daring Sundance Kid, his smile quick and mischievous. Redford as the determined journalist in All the President’s Men. Redford as the director of Ordinary People, shaping a story of pain and redemption. Redford as the champion of independent cinema through his Sundance Film Festival. Each image carried weight, and each seemed to be cradled in the notes of the hymn.
When Guy reached the final verse, his voice grew softer, almost fragile. Yet in that fragility there was strength—the kind of strength that comes from faith, from memory, from love. The last note lingered in the air, resonant and haunting, as though unwilling to leave. And then, at last, silence returned.
Guy stepped forward, placing his hand gently on the casket. His eyes closed, his lips moved in a prayerful whisper, inaudible to all but close enough for the spirit of the moment to capture: “Rest easy, Bob. Your story lives on.”
The chapel remained hushed. No applause broke the stillness, no words interrupted the moment. The silence itself became part of the hymn, as though the entire room had joined in the final verse by simply holding its breath.
Later, those who attended would speak of Guy Penrod’s tribute as one of the service’s most unforgettable moments. It was not elaborate. It was not rehearsed. But it was profoundly true. A hymn of farewell from a voice that had carried faith to millions, now carrying gratitude and grief to honor a man whose art had carried truth to the world.
Robert Redford’s films will endure, his festival will inspire, his activism will echo—but in that chapel, on that day, he was remembered simply as Bob. And through the trembling voice of Guy Penrod, his farewell became less about loss and more about love.