  "Thy will, not mine, be done!" So breathe I when the day's begun, So breathe I when the day is done. I whisper it in blinding tears, I pause and listen, till appears The welcome voice for listening ears; The voice which checks my wayward will And makes my longing heart to thrill With love for those who need me still. But, O, how long must I so pray? When will I learn to calmly say, "Thy will is mine," both night and day? Ah! this can never be on earth, Since he who gladly gave me birth To everything that was of worth Has gone from out my sense and sight, To what? O ye who still invite To heaven's sure realm and faith's own right, Reveal some clue for me to see What life is his, what he's to me. Alas! ye can't. Then what can be More precious when the day is done, Or when the morning is begun, Than, "Not my will, but Thine, be done." |
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