JESUS

    

You are more wonderful than human pen can define,

Beyond the description of the longest, well-inked line,

Majestically huge, yet IN this unworthy heart of mine.

Jesus, Precious Jesus.

– eab, 2/5/06

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There’s a cost to Following Jesus –

 

– “the cost of the cross.”

 

There’s a reward to Following Jesus

 

– “It’s out of this world” 

– eab, 11/9/12

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Showing Telling

Men have tried to reveal to the world who Jesus is.

 

 Those who have succeeded

 

have done better at “Showing,” than at “Telling.”       

– eab, 6/23/12

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Henry Francis Lyte – buried, Nov. 20, 1847

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.

Henry Francis Lyte was buried this date, 11/20/1847, Nice, France.  Though orphaned he was able to attended Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland, specializing in English poetry.  Lyte married Anne Maxwell, 1818, at Bath, daughter of William Maxwell a minister of Monaghan. (Their very happy marriage produced at least one child, a daughter.)  From Trinity College he received his MA in 1820.

Lyte did not have a strong body and in later years suffered from asthma and consumption. His last pastorate (twenty-three years) was a poor parish, pastoring the fishermen and families in Lower Brixham, England.  (It was here he penned “Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken.”  Near the end of life (his health in worse condition) Lyte preached his last sermon and also wrote “Abide with Me, Fast Falls the Eventide.”

It was for his health sake that he had started to Italy but expired making it no farther than France. Lyte was born 6/1/1793, at Ed­nam, Scot­land.

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Will L Thompson – death, Sep. 20, 1909

Jesus is all the world to me, my life, my joy, my all;
He is my strength from day to day, without Him I would fall.
When I am sad, to Him I go, no other one can cheer me so;
When I am sad, He makes me glad, He’s my Friend.

Jesus is all the world to me, my Friend in trials sore;
I go to Him for blessings, and He gives them over and o’er.
He sends the sunshine and the rain, He sends the harvest’s golden grain;
Sunshine and rain, harvest of grain, He’s my Friend.

Jesus is all the world to me, and true to Him I’ll be;
O how could I this Friend deny, when He’s so true to me?
Following Him I know I’m right, He watches o’er me day and night;
Following Him by day and night, He’s my Friend.

Jesus is all the world to me, I want no better Friend;
I trust Him now, I’ll trust Him when life’s fleeting days shall end.
Beautiful life with such a Friend, beautiful life that has no end;
Eternal life, eternal joy, He’s my Friend.

Will L. Thompson died this date, 9/20/1909, at NY, NY.  He had been born 11/7/1847 in East Liverpool, OH.  Will also penned “Softly and Tenderly Jesus Is Calling.”

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Lewis Hartsough – birth, Aug. 31, 1828

I hear Thy welcome voice
That calls me, Lord, to Thee,
For cleansing in Thy precious blood
That flowed on Calvary.

Refrain

I am coming Lord!
Coming now to Thee!
Wash me, cleanse me in the blood
That flowed on Calvary!

2. Though coming weak and vile,
Thou dost my strength assure;
Thou dost my vileness fully cleanse,
Till spotless all, and pure.

3. ’Tis Jesus calls me on
To perfect faith and love,
To perfect hope and peace and trust,
For earth and Heav’n above.

4. ’Tis Jesus Who confirms
The blessèd work within,
By adding grace to welcomed grace,
Where reigned the power of sin.

5. And He the witness gives
To loyal hearts and free
That every promise is fulfilled,
If faith but brings the plea.

6. All hail! atoning blood!
All hail! redeeming grace!
All hail! the gift of Christ our Lord,
Our Strength and Righteousness.

Lewis Hartsough was born this date, 8/31/1828 at Ithaca, NY.  He was a Methodist who graduated from Cazenovia Seminary (1852) and pastored churches in the Oneida Conference.  He requested transfer to the West, was appointed to the Utah Mission and later was pre­sid­ing el­der of the Wy­om­ing Dis­trict.  “I Am Coming, Lord” Sankey wrote “The words and mu­sic of this beau­ti­ful hymn were first pub­lished in a month­ly, en­ti­tled, Guide to Ho­li­ness, a co­py of which was sent to me in Eng­land.”  Hartsough died 1/1/1919 at Mount Ver­non, IA.

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Guest T O M B ? Guest Tomb!!!

We occasionally need a Guest Room

           for a night or two.

 

Jesus is the only Person

          to need a Guest  T O M B.

 

– eab, 8/11/09

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Joseph Medlicott Scriven – death, Aug. 10, 1886

What a Friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.

Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged; take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness; take it to the Lord in prayer.

Are we weak and heavy laden, cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge, take it to the Lord in prayer.
Do your friends despise, forsake you? Take it to the Lord in prayer!
In His arms He’ll take and shield you; you will find a solace there.

Blessed Savior, Thou hast promised Thou wilt all our burdens bear
May we ever, Lord, be bringing all to Thee in earnest prayer.
Soon in glory bright unclouded there will be no need for prayer
Rapture, praise and endless worship will be our sweet portion there.

 

Joseph Medlicott Scriven died this date, 8/10/1886 at Port Hope, On­tar­io.  Aft­er his

fi­an­cée drowned in Ireland (night be­fore they were to mar­ry) he moved to Can­a­da.  There he taught school and be­came en­gaged to Eliza Roche, in amaz­ing co­in­ci­dence, Eliza died short­ly before their wed­ding.  Yet Scriven could pen, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”

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Alfred Lord Tennyson – birth, Aug 6, 1809

“More things are wrought by pray­er
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life with­in the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of pray­er
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson was born this date, 8/6/1809 at Lincolnshire, England.  When reportedly asked what Jesus meant to him, he replied, “What the sun is to the flower, Jesus Christ is to my soul.”  

 He wrote the well known poems “Ring Out the Old, Ring in the New” “Strong Son of God, Immortal Love” “Break, Break, Break” “In Memoriam” and “Crossing the Bar” which, he requested, be always printed last in any collection of his poems.  

Tennyson, who was Poet Laureate, died 10/6/1892 at Ald­worth House, near Has­le­mere, Sur­rey, Eng­land.

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PETER

Eleven men were in the boat,

They were splashed but still afloat.

One stepped out – to walk “overboard”

To be with Jesus, His great Lord.

What faith!  Yet we pick on “his moat.”

                – eab, 7/4/06

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