Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken

I have no real story here, I am just feeling nostalgic for the congregation where I used to lead singing. We learned this song together and I always get slightly choked up singing it (just slightly nowadays, but still. . .)

It was written by Henry F. Lyte, a Scotsman who moved to Ireland as a lad, attended Trinity College and was assigned to pastor in Taghmon. His friendship with fellow pastor Abraham Swanne during the latter's critical illness -- and their study of Scripture together during long talks -- is supposed to have been the inspiration for this hymn. I know of two tunes to go with it, though I've only ever sung it with the first:

1. Ellesdie - long attributed to Mozart, sources list it in Joshua Leavitt's Christian Lyre (1831). The familiar four-part arrangment is by Hubert Main, 1872.
2. Hyfrodol - best known with "Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus," by Rowland Prichard, 1830.

That's all for this week. Take care of each other. Go in peace.

And RIP Glen Shoemaker, you sweet, sweet man.

Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken

Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee.
Destitute, despised, forsaken, Thou from hence my all shall be.
Perish every fond ambition, all I’ve sought or hoped or known.
Yet how rich is my condition! God and heaven are still mine own.

Let the world despise and leave me, they have left my Savior, too.
Human hearts and looks deceive me; Thou art not, like them, untrue.
And while Thou shalt smile upon me, God of wisdom, love and might,
Foes may hate and friends disown me, show Thy face and all is bright.

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure! Come, disaster, scorn and pain!
In Thy service, pain is pleasure; with Thy favor, loss is gain.
I have called Thee, “Abba, Father”; I have set my heart on Thee:
Storms may howl, and clouds may gather, all must work for good to me.

Man may trouble and distress me, ’twill but drive me to Thy breast.
Life with trials hard may press me; heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
Oh, ’tis not in grief to harm me while Thy love is left to me;
Oh, ’twere not in joy to charm me, were that joy unmixed with Thee.

Take, my soul, thy full salvation; rise o’er sin, and fear, and care;
Joy to find in every station something still to do or bear:
Think what Spirit dwells within thee; what a Father’s smile is thine;
What a Savior died to win thee, child of heaven, shouldst thou repine?

Haste then on from grace to glory, armed by faith, and winged by prayer,
Heaven’s eternal day’s before thee, God’s own hand shall guide thee there.
Soon shall close thy earthly mission, swift shall pass thy pilgrim days;
Hope soon change to glad fruition, faith to sight, and prayer to praise.