But to return to the writer of the hymn and her
story: she who once laughed at the pilgrims of
Bala became now one of the most devout of them.
She used to attend there on the Communion
Sabbath, although it meant for her, as for
hundreds more, a rugged mountainous journey of
over twenty miles. Once on her way home she
became so absorbed in holy contemplation that she
rode many miles out of her way over the Berwyn
Hills before ever awakening to the fact. The
result of those hours of thought is kept in this hymn:
Blessed day of rest eternal
From my labour, in my place!
On a shoreless sea of wonders,
The unfathomed depths of grace:
Finding an abundant entrance
To the Triune God's abode:
Seas to sail and never compass;
God as man, and man as God,
Neither shall the sun light on them,
Nor the fear of death give pain;
Tears forgotten in the anthem
Of the Lamb which once was slain:
Sailing on the crystal river
Of the peace of One in Three,
Underneath the cloudless beamings
Of the death of Cavalry.
Nothing could mark the intensity of feeling
more strikingly than the broken sentences and
rapid interchange of thoughts. 'The cloudless
beamings of the death of Cavalry:'--the confused
eloquence reveals the divine anguish of imagination.