Wer das Kleinod will erlangen

Here is my alteration and supplemental translation of Catherine Winkworth’s “Who would make the prize his own,” a translation of stanzas 1–2 and 5–6 of the Christian warfare hymn, “Wer das Kleinod will erlangen” (Johann Mentzer, d. 1734), Ev.-Luth. Gsb #429. I include her original text to show to what extent it has been altered. Mentzer’s hymn, based on 2 Timothy 4, first appeared in the Schlechtiger Gsb (Berlin, 1704), then in Freylinghausen 1714, etc. Stier, in Gesangbuchsnoth, p. 155, calls it “a heartening view of the crown from the heat of the battle, a longing call to strength in the weariness of the course.” Stylistically, Mentzer avoids formulaic language and shows a slight disregard for economy. The appointed melody is “Alle Menschen müssen sterben.”

 

WHO would be the prize obtaining
Runs as swiftly as he can;
Who would fain a crown be gaining,
Must fight bravely as a man,
Yea, must make his powers greater,
Training ere the time grows later,
Casting all things else aside
That would counteract his stride.

2 Dearest Jesus, Thy good favor
Sett’st a prize before me too,
That delights my spirit ever
By its beauty rich and new;
Oh, how from Thy throne all-glorious
Gleams the crown of saints victorious,
Which in glory shall be giv’n
To Thine own who here have striv’n!

3 Lord, it is my heart’s ambition
This great prize at last to gain;
Yea, I’ll strive without remission
Till th’ appearing glad and fain;
Yet the running gives me anguish,
And in fighting long I languish,
And the painted stuff of earth
Often steals my joy and mirth.

4 Soon my selfish will, depravèd,
Turns aside to left or right;
Often, that strength might be savèd,
Seeks to rest amid the fight.
Satan often makes me weary,
And I’d lose the vict’ry nearly
If Thy faithful strength should fail
To uphold me and prevail.

5 Yet it seems I strive but vainly;
Lord, in pity look on me!
In my weakness, oh, sustain me,
Set me now from all things free
That would from my goal restrain me,
Come, prepare my soul and train me,
Give me joy and strength and life,
Help my progress in the strife.

6 It is worth the effort mighty,
Though it bitterly may smack,
To withdraw from worldlings flighty,
Who can only pull me back;
For that man is well rewarded
Who is grace’s crown afforded;
Be Thyself my Strength divine,
And the prize shall soon be mine.

Tr. sts. 1–2, 5–6, C. Winkworth, alt.
Stanzas 3–4: Translation © 2023 Matthew Carver.
Alterations in sts. 1–2, 5–6 © 2023 Matthew Carver.

WINKWORTH

WHO would make the prize his own,
Runs as swiftly as he can;
Who would gain an earthly crown,
Strives in earnest as a man;
Trains himself betimes with care
For the conflict he would share,
Casts aside whate'er could be
Hindrance to His victory.

2 Lord, Thou biddest me aspire
To a prize so high, so grand,
That it sets my soul on fire
To be found amidst Thy band:
Oh how brightly shineth down
From Thy heights the starry crown
And the throne to victors given,
Who for Thee have bravely striven!

5 Yet it seems I strive in vain,
Lord, in pity look on me,
Thou my weakness must sustain,
Set me now from all things free
That would keep me from my goal;
Come, Thyself prepare my soul,
Give me joy and strength and life,
Help me in the race, the strife.

6 Well our utmost efforts worth
Is the crown I see afar,
Though the blinded sons of earth
Care not for our holy war;
An exceeding great reward
Is that crown of grace, my Lord;
Be Thyself my Strength divine,
And the prize shall soon be mine.

GERMAN

Wer das Kleinod will erlangen,
der muß laufen, was er kann;
wer die Krone will empfangen,
der muß kämpfen als ein Mann.
Dazu muß er sich in Zeiten
auf das Beste zubereiten,
alles Andre lassen gehn,
was ihm kann im Wege stehn.

2 Herzens-Jesu! deine Güte
steckt mir auch ein Kleinod für,
das entzückt mir mein Gemüthe
durch den Reichthum seiner Zier.
O, wi glänzt die schöne Krone
vom dem hohen Ehrenthrone,
die du in der Herrlichkeit
deinen Streitern hast bereit!

3 Mich verlangt von ganzem Herzen,
auch nicht weit davon zu sein;
ja, ich ziele recht mit Schmerzen
auf den freudenvollen Schein;
doch das Laufen thut mir bange,
und der Kampf währt fast zu lange;
der geschminkte Erdenwust
nimmt mir öfters alle Lust.

4 Mein verderbter Eigenwille
hat bald dies, bald das zu thun,
hält im Laufen vielmals stille
und will in dem Streite ruhn.
Satan macht mich auch oft mürbe,
daß mir fast der Sieg verdürbe,
wo mir deine treue Kraft
nicht gewünschte Hülfe schafft.

5 Drum, mein Jesu! steh mir Armen
in so großer Schwachheit bei;
laß dich meine Noth erbarmen;
mache mich von Allem frei,
was mir will mein Ziel verrücken;
komm, mich selbst recht zuzuschicken;
gieb mir Kraft und Freudigkeit,
fördre meinen Lauf im Streit.

6 Es verlohnt sich wohl der Mühe,
ob mir's gleichwohl sauer wird,
wenn ich mich der Welt entziehe,
die mich stets zurücke führt;
denn der Treue Gnadenkrone
ist mir über gnug zum Lohne,
wirst du nur meine Beistand sein,
so ist sie in kurzem mein.