“Take up thy cross,” thy Lord commands thee,
“Count loss thy gain, and follow Me.”
To leave thy joys He doth demand thee
and love, though hated thou shalt be.
Of the Great Suff’rer’s pain partake
and bear death gladly for His sake.
Yet must thy works lie steeped in sadness?
Must grevious aches thy heart attend?
Must thou ne’er know the time for gladness?
Must pains assail thee without end?
Still rest in this: each pulsing woe
shall bring thee more of God to know.
Thou wilt find joy, encased in sorrow;
the path to life is veiled in tears.
Unmixed with pain He grants tomorrow
and sweet reprieve from mortal fears.
He shall refine earth’s light dismays
to glory’s gold: the weight of praise.
The pangs of birth shall slip to blessing—
life’s bitter herbs transformed to love.
Man’s grief and sin no more oppressing
the sweet repose of saints above.
Though long and toilsome be thy fight,
the land of rest turns all things right.
“Take up thy crown,” thy Lord commends thee,
“Thy faith has won; thy loss brings gain.
My joy shall e’er in heav’n attend thee;
My love a monument remain.”
There the Great Victor’s praise shall bloom
and life be nourished from the tomb.
