"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."