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!