No one can read the Welsh hymns of the last century without noting how every sentiment turns lovingly to the cross. The cross absorbs the themes of sermon and song; for it was the sun and shield of the National Revival. There is scarcely a hymn of Williams' in which it does not stand forth clear and towering. The passion of these verses is not of earth:
50 Who'll give me balm of Gilead-- Forgiveness, with its peace? Then fear of death would vanish, My soul would be at ease: And who can soothe the anguish Of guilt and evil will? I know of none but Jesus, Once nailed upon the hill. | Hard were the nails and cruel, To pierce that form of grace; But now they hold the compass Of heaven in its place: The hope of Adam's children Flows from that awful hour, When earth beheld its Maker Abused by human power. | If ever the authority Of Calvary should fail, No hope, nor any comfort, Would then for me avail: Most wretched, oh! most wretched Would I of all men be: The dreadful grave would swallow My soul, full surely. | Oh! vast, and ever vaster, The mercy He made known: Behold, the wide creation Doth last in Him alone: The moan of that dark mountain-- Lama sabachthani! Is now the pearl most precious Of any land or sea. | 51 Unbearable the burden To man--yea, to the best; And on my God's own shoulder It terribly did rest: Justice was there demanding The price to be made good; And sin's eternal ransom Was paid in sweat and blood. | The vast unmeasured mountain Upon Himself He took, From off the feeble shoulders Of guilty man forsook: When Nature saw the burden Of infinite disgrace, The very earth was shaken, And heaven hid its face. | If thousand worlds were ransomed By that one sacrifice, Too dear would they be counted, Redeemed at such a price: No angel can, or seraph, Tell e'en a thousandth part Of that great price of ransom-- The blood of God's own heart. | A fire in thousand bosoms Through heaven ravisheth-- A new white flame of wonder, Remembering His death: It silences their music With ever new surprise: They look on God Incarnate, And say--'Behold! He dies!' | 52 To Thee, my God, my Saviour, Praise be for ever new; Let people come to praise Thee In numbers like the dew; Oh! that in every meadow The grass were harps of gold, To sing to Him for coming To ransom hosts untold! | |