Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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THE CROSS.
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
THE CROSS.
The Measure of Love.
There is no measure like the Cross,
There is no measure so,
Which is as infinite in loss
And as exceeding low;
It probes into the poisonous leaven
Of evil's awful spell,
It is as high as highest Heaven,
It is as deep as hell.
Ah, if I were Almighty God
Who suffered sore for us,
And He the crawling worm I trod,
I would not measure thus.
There is no measure so,
Which is as infinite in loss
And as exceeding low;
It probes into the poisonous leaven
Of evil's awful spell,
It is as high as highest Heaven,
It is as deep as hell.
Ah, if I were Almighty God
Who suffered sore for us,
And He the crawling worm I trod,
I would not measure thus.
There is no measure like the rule
Which meted God our dearth,
And carries all the joys of Yule
Like sunshine round the earth;
Bought for us at tremendous price
And daily, hourly pangs,
In that perpetual Sacrifice
Where God the Victim hangs;
For O not once or twice alone
In agony He died,
He ever reigns upon that Throne
For us the Crucified.
Which meted God our dearth,
And carries all the joys of Yule
Like sunshine round the earth;
Bought for us at tremendous price
And daily, hourly pangs,
In that perpetual Sacrifice
Where God the Victim hangs;
For O not once or twice alone
In agony He died,
He ever reigns upon that Throne
For us the Crucified.
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There is no measure like that tree
Of dreadful living death,
Upraised for sinners whereon He
For us draws dying breath;
And every soul that passes by
His mercy signs His doom,
And every spot is Calvary
Where Jesus finds no room.
But if I were Almighty God,
And He the midge below
A moment playing o'er the sod,
I would not measure so.
Of dreadful living death,
Upraised for sinners whereon He
For us draws dying breath;
And every soul that passes by
His mercy signs His doom,
And every spot is Calvary
Where Jesus finds no room.
But if I were Almighty God,
And He the midge below
A moment playing o'er the sod,
I would not measure so.
There is no measure like the span
Of God's most boundless Love,
Which took the squalid home in man
And gave him all above;
That chose the littleness and debt
And dolorous bounds of sin,
And purged that prison floor and set
Eternity within;
And though a thousand times cast out
A thousand times He yearns
For us, despite the hate and doubt,
And to His shame returns.
Of God's most boundless Love,
Which took the squalid home in man
And gave him all above;
That chose the littleness and debt
And dolorous bounds of sin,
And purged that prison floor and set
Eternity within;
And though a thousand times cast out
A thousand times He yearns
For us, despite the hate and doubt,
And to His shame returns.
There is no measure like that prayer
For these dim rebel lands,
Which still for ill and God's own slayer
Uplifts the nailèd hands;
It bears all cruelty and scorn
To wipe away one tear,
It wears for crime the crownèd thorn
And leans upon the spear.
But if I were Almighty God
And He my bitterest foe,
Condemned but to the judgment rod,
I would not measure so.
For these dim rebel lands,
Which still for ill and God's own slayer
Uplifts the nailèd hands;
It bears all cruelty and scorn
To wipe away one tear,
It wears for crime the crownèd thorn
And leans upon the spear.
But if I were Almighty God
And He my bitterest foe,
Condemned but to the judgment rod,
I would not measure so.
There is no measure like that Heart
Of the Most Holy One,
Which bled so for the wicked part
Which only we had done;
Which bleeds for ever, as we drive
The wounds of torture deep,
With direr woes He came to shrive,
And sorrow He must keep;
That things of darkness and the dust,
As bubbles on the tide,
May find a refuge they can trust
Safe in His riven side.
Of the Most Holy One,
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Which only we had done;
Which bleeds for ever, as we drive
The wounds of torture deep,
With direr woes He came to shrive,
And sorrow He must keep;
That things of darkness and the dust,
As bubbles on the tide,
May find a refuge they can trust
Safe in His riven side.
There is no measure like the Cross
Which reaches through all time,
To purge the golden ore from dross,
And gathers of each clime;
There is no measure like the Love
Of the Thrice-Blessèd Lord,
Who plants us on His seat above
While smitten by our sword.
Ah, if I were Almighty God
And He with murderer's blow
Struck at me from earth's puny clod,
I would not measure so.
Which reaches through all time,
To purge the golden ore from dross,
And gathers of each clime;
There is no measure like the Love
Of the Thrice-Blessèd Lord,
Who plants us on His seat above
While smitten by our sword.
Ah, if I were Almighty God
And He with murderer's blow
Struck at me from earth's puny clod,
I would not measure so.
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