1. 'Tis Hard, When We Are Sick and Poor
And they who loved us love no more;
When riches, health, and friends are gone,
To say, "O Lord, thy will be done."
Yet Lord, I would to thee resign,"
And say, "My Father's will be mine."
2. 'T is hard, when in our soul's distress,
All, all around is wilderness;
When herbs and quenching streams there's none,
To say, "My Father's will be done."
Yet, Lord, I would to thee resign,
And say, "My Father's will be mine."
3. And yet, how light our sorrows be
To His in dark Gethsemane,
Who drank the cup, with stifled groan,
And said, "My Fahter's will be done."
Dear Lord, my I to thee resign,
And say, "My Father's will be mine." |
