What Wondrous Love, Indeed!

I love hymns—their history, their depth, their theology. I grew up singing beloved evangelical favorites like “He Lives,” “The Old Rugged Cross,” and “Just As I Am,” and later encountered the sturdy strength of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Yet one hymn that has recently captured my attention is “What Wondrous Love Is This.”

Though American in origin, with roots in the Appalachian South, it feels far older than its early nineteenth-century beginnings. The tune first appeared around 1811–12 in regional songbooks and later found a home in William Walker’s Southern Harmony (1835), a shape-note collection that helped carry it across generations. Like so many enduring hymns, it was passed along orally before it was ever fixed on the page. Its composer remains unknown.

The hymn opens not with declaration, but with astonishment:

“What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul,

What wondrous love is this, O my soul,

That caused the Lord of bliss

To bear the dreadful curse

For my soul, for my soul,

To bear the dreadful curse for my soul.”

These words are not triumphant so much as awestruck. The singer is trying to comprehend the incomprehensible: that the “Lord of bliss” would bear a “dreadful curse” for us. The language echoes Paul’s words in Galatians: “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us” (Gal. 3:13). The hymn does not rush past that mystery. It lingers there. The second verse deepens the reflection:

“When I was sinking down beneath God’s righteous frown,

Christ laid aside his crown for my soul.”

Here, the theology is both simple and profound. Human helplessness is acknowledged—“sinking down”—and divine mercy responds. The phrase “God’s righteous frown” reminds us that God’s justice is not cruelty, but righteousness (Rom. 1:18). Yet even in the face of justice, grace prevails. Christ “laid aside his crown.” The movement is downward—incarnation, humility, sacrifice—all for love.

The music itself reinforces this theological depth. The melody, set in the Dorian mode and built on a six-tone scale, has the quality of a lament. It is spare and unadorned. The rhythm stretches and breathes, leaving space between phrases. There is nothing polished or sentimental about it.

Instead, it feels raw and direct, as though it emerged from the lived faith of ordinary believers. The starkness of the tune allows the weight of the words to settle in us. Love, here, is not merely comforting; it is sacrificial and costly.

Yet the hymn does not remain in sorrow. In its final verses, the focus turns outward and upward:

“To God and to the Lamb,

Who is the great I Am,

While millions join the theme,

I will sing.”

And finally:

“And when from death I’m free,

I’ll sing and joyful be,

And through eternity,

I’ll sing on.”

The movement is clear: astonishment leads to confession, confession to redemption, and

redemption to praise. The question that opens the hymn—“What wondrous love is this?”—is

never fully answered. Instead, the singer joins the song of the redeemed. Eternal praise becomes the only fitting response.

Perhaps it is fitting that we do not know who composed this hymn. It does not belong to a single author or personality. It belongs to the church. Its anonymity allows it to become the voice of every believer who stands in awe of God’s grace.

When we sing “What Wondrous Love Is This” together, we are not solving a theological puzzle. We are entering a testimony that has echoed through generations. We join countless others— known and unknown—who have marveled at a love beyond comprehension.

We may not fully explain that love. But we can receive it. And we can sing it.

What wondrous love, indeed.