Till moons shall wax and wane no more.”
Solomon’s coronation song (Ps. 72) was no more majestic than this crowning hymn Watts wrote for his Lord.
But Watts could not only be majestic; he could be tender:
“When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.”
Is there a tenderer strain in all English hymnody than the third verse?
“See, from his head, his hands, his feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!