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!