Poem: Madame Jean Guyon “The Joy of the Cross” [Vol. 1, #38]

The Joy of the Cross

Madame Jean Guyon

(1647-1717)

 

Long plunged in sorrow, I resign

My soul to that dear hand of thine,

Without reserve or fear;

That hand shall wipe my streaming eyes;

Or into smiles of glad surprise

Transform the falling tear.

 

My sole possession is thy love;

In earth beneath, or heaven above,

I have no other store;

And, though with fervent suit I pray,

And importune thee night and day,

I ask thee nothing more.

 

My rapid hours pursue the course

Prescribed them by love’s sweetest force,

And I thy sovereign will,

Without a wish to escape my doom;

Though still a sufferer from the womb,

And doomed to suffer still.

 

By thy command, where’er I stray,

Sorrow attends me all my way,

A never–failing friend;

And, if my sufferings may augment

Thy praise, behold me well content—

Let sorrow still attend!

 

It cost me no regret, that she,

Who followed Christ, should follow me,

And though, where’er she goes,

Thorns spring spontaneous at her feet,

I love her, and extract a sweet

From all my bitter woes.

 

Adieu! ye vain delights of earth,

Insipid sports, and childish mirth,

I taste no sweets in you;

Unknown delights are in the cross,

All joy beside to me is dross;

And Jesus thought so too.

 

The cross! Oh, ravishment and bliss—

How grateful e’en its anguish is;

Its bitterness how sweet!

There every sense, and all the mind,

In all her faculties refined,

Tastes happiness complete.

 

Souls once enabled to disdain

Base sublunary joys, maintain

Their dignity secure;

The fever of desire is passed,

And love has all its genuine taste,

Is delicate and pure.

 

Self–love no grace in sorrow sees,

Consults her own peculiar ease;

‘Tis all the bliss she knows;

But nobler aims true Love employ;

In self–denial is her joy,

In suffering her repose.

 

Sorrow and love go side by side;

Nor height nor depth can e’er divide

Their heaven–appointed bands;

Those dear associates still are one,

Nor till the race of life is run

Disjoin their wedded hands.

 

Jesus, avenger of our fall,

Thou faithful lover, above all

The cross has ever borne!

Oh, tell me,—life is in thy voice—

How much afflictions were thy choice,

And sloth and ease thy scorn!

 

Thy choice and mine shall be the same,

Inspirer of that holy flame

Which must for ever blaze!

To take the cross and follow thee,

Where love and duty lead, shall be

My portion and my praise.