He sendeth sun, He sendeth shower;
Alike they’re needful for the flower;
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nourishment:
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!

Can loving children e’er reprove
With murmurs whom they trust and love?
Creator! I would ever be
A trusting, loving child to Thee
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!

O, ne’er will I at life repine!
Enough that Thou hast made it mine.
When falls the shadow cold of death,
I yet will sing, with parting breath,—
As comes to me or shade or sun,
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!