Saturday 29 September 2007

Caniadau ei Ieuengctid

A poem by William Williams Pantycelyn:

My precious soul while here below,
Doth trust with ease, yet doubts still grow;
I'm dead as stone, yet much alive,
I'm far from God, yet near I thrive.

Though poor and needy, rich am I;
In health, yet sick and fit to die;
Though chained and bound, I freedom know;
I greatly joy, yet sorrow show.

I dwell in peace, yet war abounds,
I prove defeat, yet triumph sounds;
Though foes oppress and have their way
I conquerer prove and win the day.

Though dull and blind, yet I can see,
I'm full of filth, and purity;
Though black with guilt, white still my dress;
Without, within the veil I press.

My way is short, yet travel still;
I rest, but journey onward will;
Far, far from home, e'en now by grace
I dwell in my abiding place.

God's temple I, yet Satan's nest,
My very foe I make my guest;
Hell I deserve, yet heaven my right
Through grace and mercy, in God's sight.

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