Sacrifice is a key gospel concept, and as such is also a key concept for life. Whether the it involves one person giving up something to help others or simply the individual giving up something for his own benefit, sacrifice is always about making decisions that balance one benefit or good against another. So we might give up our time or effort to improve ourselves (say in exercise, or in study), deciding that the time or effort isn’t as important or valuable as the improvement we gain. Or, more importantly, Christ decided to give up his life and endure the sins of the world, so that all of God’s children might be better off.

Most of this week’s Come Follow Me lesson covers various forms of sacrifice. Often the problem with sacrifice is not understanding or valuing what will be gained in exchange for the sacrifice. We might not see how the sacrifice will make us better, or we might not thing that how we are better is worth it. Sacrificing by taking “refuge” in the Church might not seem important if it means moving across the world. And sacrificing by paying tithing might seem like a waste of money, if you don’t value the relationship it can give you with God.

 

The name of the Church is important to the Lord.

With President Nelson’s emphasis on the name of the Church, I think this has often been a kind of sacrifice — we had to give up what we were used to saying, and what was easy and acceptable in our relationship with others. It was, at times, a bit uncomfortable for many of us.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to find any poetry that specifically addresses the name of the Church — and, to be honest, the natural pattern of stresses in the name of the Church is an unusual enough pattern that it is a little hard to put into any standard poetic form. [There is Janice Knapp Perry’s song “The Church of Jesus Christ”, #77 in the Children’s Songbook — but if you know the song it is clear that the rhythm and form is unusual.]

The following poem does talk about names — having names written into the Book of Life as members of the Church: “when the Book of Life is read, / There may the reapers and their sheaves, / Named with the Church that Christ.” Another of the wide-ranging œuvre of hymnist J. L. Townsend, this poem talks about the sacrifices of missionaries — those to whom the name of the Church is a real, every-day issue. [Maybe someone should take a survey of missionaries to find out how they connect the name of the Church to something that the hearers understand!]

 

Our Missionaries

by J. L. Townsend

Wearily tramping day by day

Over the country far and wide,

Earnestly reaping by the way,

And two and two, and side by side,

Are Mormon Elders moving.

 

Over the turnpikes rough and worn,

Over the lanes through wheat and corn,

Treading the paths in wood and field,

Where honest folks a shelter yield,

They ev’rywhere are roving.

 

Oft on the wayside rocks or trees,

Hungry and footsore, long they rest,

Talking of home and liberties

Ne’er given to a weary guest,

However much befriended.

 

Thousands of miles away from home,

Daily they on their circuit roam,

Facing the storms, or dust and heat,

Until their mission is complete,

Their tiresome labors ended.

 

Bible in hand, they teach the truth,

Like it was taught in Palestine,

Calling on all, in age or youth,

To heed the Gospel plan divine

Restored again from Heaven.

 

Freely they give the words of life,

Ever opposed by Satan’s strife;

Ever withstood by Pharisees

Who fight the truth by calumnies

As when it first was given.

 

Ever at work, their lives at stake,

Warning the world of what will be,

Warning the world to turn, forsake,

And flee the harlot mystery.

The great sectarian babel.

 

Threatened with clubs and coats of tar,

Errors’ accustomed plan of war;

Hated by priests who truth deride,—

The welcome that the Elders bide

‘Mid foes that love a fable.

 

Wearily tramping day by day,

Seeking the humble, rich and poor,

Calling to all: Repent, obey

The ordinance that will insure

The Savior’s approbation.

 

Over the wide land everywhere

Swiftly the Gospel now they bear:

Soon will the land be left untilled,

The Gentile times be all fulfilled,

And fallen every nation.

 

Judgments and plagues, with war and fire,

Over the world will swiftly go,

Bringing a devastation dire,

With millions crying in their woe

Who heeded not the warning.

 

Then will the Saints enjoy their rest,

Gathered together in the West;

Living beneath the laws of God,

Secure, while His avenging rod

Brings terror, woe and mourning.

 

Yearly from Zion still they go,

Happy are they when one believes;

Happier still whene’er they know

They may return with gathered sheaves

As brands plucked from the burning.

 

Tramping with neither scrip or purse,

Sheltered by friends while foes accuse,

Leaving it all for God above

To mete to all, in hate or love,

The sure reward they’re earning.

 

O, when the Book of Life is read,

There may the reapers and their sheaves,

Named with the Church that Christ has wed,

Be found upon its sacred leaves

Recorded close together!

 

Then will the reapers joyful be

Greeting the souls they helped to free.

Wearily tramping, day by day,

Upon the lone or dusty way,

No more, no more, forever.

1882

 

Zion and her stakes offer “refuge from the storm.”

A refuge may seem like a place you go after struggling or making a sacrifice. But often getting to the refuge is a sacrifice itself. Take the 19th century practice of gathering. Often members left stable and comfortable situations to move to a desert, sacrificing physical comfort for refuge from living among non-believers and sometimes from physical persecution.

While the following hymn is likely familiar, the original title and the connection to the gathering may not be. And the hymn as we have it in the current hymnal (#5) doesn’t include the last two stanzas, which call “Deseret” a refuge. Joel H. Johnson was one of the most prolific of LDS hymn writers—his journal reportedly included 736 hymns, most of which have never been published.

 

The Gathering

by Joel H. Johnson

High on the mountain top

A banner is unfurl’d,

Ye nations now look up,

It waves to all the world;

In Deseret’s sweet peaceful land—

On Zion’s mount behold it stand!

 

For God remembers still

His promise made of old,”

That He on Zion’s hill

Truth’s standard would unfold;

Her light should there attract the gaze

Of all the world in latter days.

 

His house shall there be reared,

His glory to display,

And people shall be heard

In distant lands to say,

“We’ll now go up and serve the Lord,

Obey His truth, and learn His word;

 

“For there we shall be taught

“The law that will go forth,

“With truth and wisdom fraught,

“To govern all the earth;

“Forever there His ways we’ll tread,

“And save ourselves with all our dead.”

 

Then hail to Deseret,

A refuge for the good

And safety for the great,

If they but understood,

That God with plagues will shake the world

‘Till all its thrones shall down be hurl’d.

 

In Deseret doth truth

Rear up its royal head,

Though nations may oppose

Still wider it shall spread;

Yes, truth and justice, love and grace,

In Deseret find ample place.

1853

 

My sacrifices are sacred to the Lord.

Often our struggles and sacrifices seem unimportant. Not only don’t we see what is better because of them, but we feel like no one cares about what we went through. At such times we can have comfort that the Lord sees our sacrifices and cares about our struggles. And, as the following poem argues, these sacrifices are ennobling.

The poet is one of the early English church members, since this poem was published in the Millennial Star in 1843. However, I haven’t been able to find additional information about the poet, Eliza H. Munro. This is the only poem by her that I’ve found.

 

Hymn

by Eliza H. Munro

Come all ye children of the light, ye Saints of Latter-days,

With grateful hearts unite with me to celebrate the praise

Of Israel’s God unchangeable,—our Father and our King.

For blessings such as our’s, demand our heart’s best offering.

While thousands after thousands, for numerous centuries past,

Have grop’d in mists of error, with thick darkness overcast;

“Tis ours to live when truth hast burst in radiance bright again,

And heralds from on high are sent, good news to bring to men.

The fulness of the gospel, with its gifts and blessings true,

The priesthood long since lost from earth, we see the Lord renew;

The grandest epoch of our world is only just begun,

‘Twill pave the way for greater things than e’er were ‘neath the sun.

With prospects such as these in view, we’ll hail reproach and pain,

Truth always had its foes, and will till Jesus comes to reign;

Our Father knows our trials well, he knows we need them too,

There’s nought can harm us if we still our Saviour’s steps pursue.

‘Tis requisite to prune a tree before it bears its fruit,

The furnace must purge out the dross before the gold will suit:

If vessels for our master’s use we wish to be made fit,

We must be cleans’d from all our dross, and willingly submit.

What tho’ through tribulations deep the way to glory lies,

That path was by our Captain trod, and shall our murmurs rise?

The servant’s not above his Lord, and if we still endure,

A never-fading crown shall be our wreath of conquest sure.

The Lord, the Master of the house, Beelzebub was styl’d,

What marvel that his household then should also be revil’d?

Nay, in these things we will rejoice, we know our Lord will own

His faithful followers that endure, and seat them on his throne.

Then welcome persecution’s rage, the truth will wider spread,

The wise from slumber will awake, to life will rise the dead.

While fools with madd’ning rage, are swiftly rip’ning for the hour,

When fury’s cup unmixed, the Lord upon their heads shall pour.

E’en now the gathering clouds bespeak the storms of wrath are near,

Then let us lift our heads with joy, and banish every fear;

For while the judgments of our God fill nations with alarm,

His Saints shall hail salvation nigh, secure from every harm.

1843

 

My tithing helps build the kingdom of God.

Unlike seeking refuge, paying tithing seems like a sacrifice to almost everyone. And since it is so common, experiences of what the sacrifice means vary. For some the sacrifice and the benefit gained are both financial. Others claim spiritual benefits from the financial sacrifice. I suspect that the benefits are not the same for everyone.

What makes the following poem unusual is that it describes paying tithing in a very different world. The poet describes farmers paying their tithing once a year, in kind, after the crops have been harvested. And the proceeds of the tithing are used to benefit those who worked on the temple, and those who are poor. Augusta Joyce Crocheron was one of the most successful of LDS poets, publishing two volumes of poetry and the well-known biographical collection “Representative Women of Deseret.” As a child she was a passenger on the ship Brooklyn, which in 1846 sailed from New York City to San Francisco with 243 church members seeking to eventually meet up with the Saints crossing the plains. Crocheron reached Utah in 1867.

 

The Christmas Tithing

by Augusta Joyce Crocheron

‘Twas near the happy Christmas time,

And all the country roads,

Were strung along with teams that drew

Full, high and plenteous loads;

The “Mormon” farmers bringing in

Their tithing for the year;

O, ’twas a sight to cheer the eyes,

A pleasant sound to hear.

 

With willing hands they brought to Him

The tenth of what was given,

And knew His blessing would again

Unloose the stores of heaven.

The sacks of wheat and flour by which

The “temple hands” were fed,

The sweet dried fruits and honey comb

And apples, gold and red,

The barrels filled with syrups pure,

Butter and creamy cheese,

Fluttering poultry—what poor men

Were ever served like these?

 

Yet not alone for “temple hands,”

These tithings all were brought,

In ev’ry Ward (ignoring creeds)

The poor and sad are sought,

Their names are learned and ev’ry one

On Bishop’s list enrolled,

For each are gen’rous baskets filled

And, measured wood and coal;

And busy men step in and out,

As the tithing wagons go

Out through the gate to every Ward

Their portion to bestow.

 

O, once I went to many homes,

And happy scenes were they,

There busy worked the wives to get

All done for Christmas day;

For romping boys, were newly made

Full suits of Provo goods,

For little girls, light wollen plaids,

And pretty home-made hoods.

 

I saw the laborer’s sickly child

With dainty food was fed,

As fresh and pure as e’er before

The epicure was spread.

No happier driver takes a load,

Wher’er the things may go,

Than he who carries to the poor

On Christmas eve—through snow.

For well he knows, how eyes that closed

Expecting naught, shall wake,

And find a joyous Christmas gift,

And bless him for its sake.

 

The many blessings tithing brings,

Not you or I can count,

The little tenth from each one swells

To rich and large amount.

O, blessings on the heart that gives

The duty that it owes,

And praise His love who made the law,

That like a river flows.

Through all our mountains and our vales,

Relieving first, the poor;

And writes the giver’s name in lines

Forever shall endure.

1885