277 A SONG OF THE CROSS.
8,6,8,6,6,6,8,8
Frisch, frisch hindurch, mein Geist und Herz
Wolfgang Dessler
trans. by Catherine Winkworth, 1869
Courage, my heart, press cheerly on Along the thorny way, For joy shall come with victory won, Though pain be ours to-day: Nor shrink the load to take Which love shall easy make; Can these light transient woes compare With glory that awaits us there? | 'Twas by a path of sorrows drear Christ entered into rest; And shall I look for roses here Or think that earth is blest? Heaven's whitest lilies blow From earth's sharp crown of woe, Who here his cross can meekly bear Shall wear the kingly purple there. | Where would the garden's splendour be If north and south winds slept? Its spices flow most fragrantly When long the clouds have wept. Only do Thou remain My Rest in every pain, My Sun that cheers me still with light, When storms of grief would else affright. | For Thou, my God, art Sun and Shield To every faithful heart, That to be made like Thee would yield To trial's fiercest smart, Would bear earth's darkest woe If Heaven may but bestow On patient love the martyr's palm, For vanquished grief, Thy perfect calm. | 278 And yet, dear Lord, this shrinking heart Still trembles as of yore: Come, Cross beloved, nor e'er depart Till I have learnt Thy lore! Here, scorned with Him I love, There, crowned with Him above; Here to the cross with Jesus pressed, There comforted with Him and blest. | Then I will meekly yield me up To suffer all Thy will; I know the seeming bitter cup O'erflows with mercy still; In every cross I'll see The crown that waits for me, Thy patience shines and beckons on Until the starry heights are won. | |