When in thine hour of conflict, Lord,
The tempter to thy soul was nigh,
Or when that bitter cup was poured
In thy deep garden-agony,—

Not then, when uttermost thy need,
Seemed light across thy soul to break;
No seraph form was seen to speed,
Nor yet the voice of comfort spake;

Till, by thine own triumphant word,
The victory over ill was won;
Until the voice of faith was heard,
“Thy will, O God, not mine, be done!”

Lord, bring those precious moments back,
When fainting against sin we strain;
Or in thy counsels fail to track
Aught but the present grief and pain.

In weakness, help us to contend;
In darkness, yield to God our will;
And true hearts, faithful to the end,
Cheer by thine holy angels still!