From Thy Holy Hand’s Healing, contrition annealing
    And Faith’s oil of healing grant, Lord, I beseech;
  These only can cure me and fresh life assure me,
  These only Thy Peace can procure me!

  To the blood freely flowing of The Lamb life-bestowing
    This wonder is owing that washes out sin;
  Thy Love to us lent Him, Thy Love to death sent Him,
  That man through Thy Love should repent him.

  Lord God, Thy Protection, Lord Christ, Thy Affection,
    Holy Ghost, Thy Direction so govern my heart,
  That all promptings other than Love’s it may smother,
  As a babe is subdued to its mother.

  For that treasure of treasures that all price outmeasures,
    Pure Faith, on whose pleasures life-giving we feed—­
  Let Kings in their places, let all the earth’s races
  Sing aloud in a crowd of glad faces.

  Yea! all mouths shall bless Thee, all hearts shall confess Thee
    The bounteous Fountain of mercy and love;
  Each gift we inherit of pure, perfect merit,
  Dear God, overflows from Thy Spirit.

QUICK, DEATH!

(After Huw Morus)

  This room an antechamber is: 
  Beyond—­the Hall of Very Bliss! 
  Quick, Death! for underneath thy door
  I see the glimmering of Heaven’s floor.

COUNSEL IN VIEW OF DEATH

(After Elis Wyn, 1671-1734, one of the Welsh Classics)

  Leave your land, your goods lay down! 
  Life’s green tree shall soon grow brown. 
  Pride of birth and pleasure gay
  Renounce or they shall own you!

  Manly strength and beauty fair,
  Dear-bought sense, experience rare,
  Learning ripe, companions fond
  Yield, lest their bond ensnare you!

  Is there then no sure relief,
  Thou arch-murderer and thief,
  Death, from thine o’ermastering law—­
  Thy monstrous maw can none shun?

  O ye rich, in all your pride
  Through the ages would ye bide,
  Wherefore not with Death compound,
  Ere underground he hide you?

  Lusty athlete, light of foot,
  Death, the Bowman’s fell pursuit
  Challenge!  O, the laurels won,
  If thou but shun his shooting!

  Travellers by sea and land
  On remotest mount or strand,
  Have ye found one secret spot
  Where Death is not commanding?

  Learned scholar, jurist proud,
  Lifted god-like o’er the crowd,
  Can your keenest counsel’s aid
  Dispel Death’s shade enshrouding?

  Fervent faith, profound repentance,
  Holy hours of stern self-sentence—­
  These alone can victory bring
  When Death’s dread sting shall wring us.

FROM “THE LAST JUDGMENT”

(After Goronwy Owen, 1728-1769, next to Dafydd ab Gwilym, the greatest poet who sang in the old Welsh metres)