The Easter Tide

The Spring at Berkswell         photo Hazel Price

I was born in a house on the side of a Welsh hillside.

As I lay in my bedroom with the window open

 on a warm summer's night,
  I would hear the gushing of the mountain spring 

which ran next to the house.

Even in the hottest summers
 when there would be droughts elsewhere,

 The Spout,

 as it was known, 

never dried up.

It remained a reliable, fresh supply

 for all our daily needs.

Sometimes it's flow would
 dwindle to a mere finger of crystal clear water,

 but it never once failed completely.

The continual water gushed into an old iron horse trough,

 which in turn continually overflowed, 

and ran away through an equally old iron grid.

On a summer's day the sound of the water was cooling, 

and the deep water-filled trough looked deliciously inviting,

 but in truth the water remained so achingly cold

 it was impossible to hold your hands in it
 for more than a moment.

When there was plentiful rain,
 (and as this was Wales, that was often),

the overflow from the trough increased 
to a roaring curtain of water.

In the depth of winter 

the water trickled through a filigree channel of icicles,

 and frost-fairy fingers fashioned a silver casket 
around the old iron trough.

To smell the water,

 and hear the torrent,

 in whatever strength it poured, 

was for me to know I was home.

This week I was at the tiny village of Berkswell

where the spring which is the originator of the name,

(Berk's Well),

can still be seen.

Standing above the mouth of the spring feeding the pool
 where it is said baptism's used to occur,

I was interested to see,

contrary to the outpouring of my home spring,

here the rising water is so gentle it hardly stirs the surface.

Despite the bitter wind,
 the golden leaves fallen on the water floated lazily,
be-lying the movement of the water rising 
deep from the earth below.

It made me think how some times

 we are very aware

 of God's movement and involvement in our lives, 

while at others 

we can feel abandoned and bereft,

 even certain that this is somehow the end for us.

Yet, unseen and unheralded,

 God's love remains at work from the depths of creation,

continually offering deliverance, healing, and renewal, 

just as it did at that moment on the cross.

As a beautiful hymn of the Welsh revival has it:-

Here is love vast as the ocean
Loving kindness as the flood
When the Prince of life, our ransom
Shed for us His precious blood
Who His love will not remember?
Who can cease to sing His praise?
He can never be forgotten
Throughout Heaven’s eternal days.

On the Mount of Crucifixion
Fountains opened deep and wide
Through the floodgates of God’s mercy
Flowed a vast and gracious tide
Grace and love, like mighty rivers
Poured incessant from above
And Heaven’s peace and perfect justice
Kissed a guilty world in love



This video is rather old and grainy but
 recorded in the valleys from whence the song arose.

He is Risen!
He is Risen indeed!
Alleluiah! 

May You Know the Tide of His Love
 in It's Fullest this Easter.