1 And must it, Lord, be so?
And must thy children bear
Such various kinds of woe,
Such soul-perplexing fear?
Are these the blessings we expect?
Is this the lot of God’s elect?

2 [Boast not, ye sons of earth,
Nor look with scornful eyes;
Above your highest mirth,
Our saddest hours we prize;
For though our cup seems filled with gall,
There’s something secret sweetens all.]

3 How harsh soe’er the way,
Dear Saviour, still lead on,
Nor leave us till we say
“Father, thy will be done.”
At most we do but taste the cup,
For thou alone hast drunk it up.

4 Shall guilty man complain?
Shall sinful dust repine?
And what is all our pain?
How light compared with thine!
Finish, dear Lord, what is begun;
Choose thou the way, but still lead on.