Whene’er again thou sink­est,
My heart, be­neath thy load,
Or from the bat­tle shrink­est,
And mur­mur­est at thy God;
Then I will lead thee hi­ther,
To watch thy Sav­ior’s pray­er,
And learn from His en­dur­ance
How thou shouldst also bear.

Oh come, wouldst thou be like Him,
Thy Lord di­vine, and mark
What sharp­est sor­rows strike Him,
What ang­uish deep and dark—
That ear­nest cry to spare Him,
The trial scarce begun?
Yet still he saith: My Fa­ther,
Thy will, not Mine, be done!

Oh wherefore doth His spir­it
Such bit­ter con­flict know?
What sins, what crimes could mer­it
Such deep and aw­ful woe?
So pure are not the hea­vens,
So clear no noon­day sun,
And yet He sa­ith: My Fa­ther,
Thy will, not Mine, be done!

Oh mark that night of sor­row,
That ago­ny of pray­er;
No friend can watch till mor­row
His grief to soothe and share;
Oh where shall He find com­fort?
With God, with God alone;
And still He sa­ith: My Fa­ther,
Thy will, not Mine, be done!

Hath life for Him no glad­ness,
No joy the light of day?
Can He then feel no sad­ness,
When heart and hope give way?
That cup of mor­tal ang­uish
One bit­ter cry hath won,
That it might pass: Yet, Fa­ther,
Thy will, not Mine, be done!

And who the cup pre­pared Him,
And who the poi­son gave?
’Twas one He loved en­snared Him,
’Twas they He came to save.
Oh sharp­est pain, to suf­fer
Betrayed and mocked—alone;
Yet still he sa­ith: My Fa­ther,
Thy will, not Mine, be done!

But what is joy or liv­ing,
What trea­che­ry or death,
When all His work, His striv­ing,
Seem hang­ing on His breath?
Oh can it stand with­out Him,
That work but just be­gun?
Yet still He sa­ith: My Fa­ther,
Thy will, not Mine, be done!

He speaks; no more He shrink­eth,
Himself He of­fers up,
He sees it all, yet drink­eth
For us that bit­ter cup;
He goes to meet the trai­tor,
The cross He will not shun—
He sa­ith: I come, My Fa­ther,
Thy will, not Mine, be done!

My Sav­ior, I will ne­ver
Forget Thy word of grace,
But still re­peat it ev­er,
Through good and ev­il days;
And look­ing up to Hea­ven,
Till all my race is run,
I’ll hum­bly say: My Fa­ther,
Thy will, not mine, be done!