My times of sor­row and of joy,
Great God, are in Thy hand;
My choic­est com­forts come from Thee,
And go at Thy com­mand.

Oh Lord, shouldst Thou with­hold them all,
Yet would I not re­pine;
Before they were by me pos­sessed,
They were en­tire­ly Thine.

Nor would I drop a mur­mur­ing word,
Though the whole world were gone,
But seek en­dur­ing hap­pi­ness,
In Thee, and Thee alone.

What is the world with all its store?
’Tis but a bit­ter sweet;
When I at­tempt to pluck the rose
A prick­ing thorn I meet.

Here per­fect bliss can ne’er be found,
The ho­ney’s mixed with gall;
Midst chang­ing scenes and dy­ing friends,
Be Thou my all in all.