Reading:
Guide me , O thou Great Redeemer Pilgrim through this barren land I am weak but Thou art mighty Hold me with thy powerful hand Bread of Heaven, Bread of Heaven Feed me till I want no more Feed me till I want no more. William Williams Pantycelyn Was Taid there at the Great Awakening when Evan Roberts scourged the Rhondda? Did he testify the error of his ways in tearful public grief? In their thousands they repented, moaned and wept. (Which Taffy was a thief?) Dai Jenkins! Going with that Rosie down the butchers. And she already married. ‘There’s shame for you!’ And always Demon Drink. ‘Abstain! And close the Public Houses!’ May God’s Grace descend on sober miners and their grateful spouses. Rumour had it that before he heard the voice of God Grandfather too had been a drunkard. After never touched a drop. Drink banned from the house. Chapel twice and no arguing! No smoking on a Sunday either! And that includes those grown-up sons already down the pit. But who wouldn’t sink a pint or two To drown their sorrow when they might not Live to see their wives again If roadway flood or roof-props fail as they Begin the night shift on the morrow? No mines now in Rhondda Fach. Number Nine, where long ago my father toiled Deep underground, the very last to close. A few pubs still hang on as yet. But colliers gone, Capel bach soon went as well. How quickly shriven men forget! Where once the Word of God was preached And Sin assailed, vacant barns now stand, Sole relics of long-vanished fervour. Soar shut up. Horeb a prey to arson. Zion (where Uncle Will once played the organ) Now a mart for cut-price carpet. Indifferent to sport I make the one exception. Tribal conflict on the long-wave band. (No TV until the kids had gone!) Alone I thrill to the roar of Wales at home To England at the old Arms Park. Cwm Rhondda in full-throated harmony Urging on the side when things look dire. ‘Pilgrims through this barren land.’ Three points down! Wales searching for that vital score. Ten thousand voices choir their favourite battle hymn: ‘Bread of heaven, feed me till I want no more.’ And then the glorious repeat, rejoicing in its rising chords. (The Welsh crowd know the words.) ‘Want no more’! Then from nowhere Bleddyn Williams going wide Streaks across the twenty-two in yet another do or die. Dummies. Jinxes to avoid the tackle. God give him wings! He’s only yards to fly! Will he become Our Great Redeemer? ‘Bread of Heaven! Bread of Heaven!’ A lone voice rises high Above that joyous multitude: ‘Bugger the bread boys! Give us a try!’
Peter Lloyd Jones 