WE see not, know not; all our way <br />Is night, — with Thee alone is day: <br />From out the torrent's troubled drift, <br />Above the storm our prayers we lift, <br />Thy will be done! <br />The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, <br />But who are we to make complaint, <br />Or dare to plead, in times like these, <br />The weakness of our love of ease? <br />Thy will be done! <br />We take with solemn thankfulness <br />Our burden up, nor ask it less, <br />And count it joy that even we <br />May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee, <br />Whose will be done! <br />Though dim as yet in tint and line, <br />We trace Thy picture's wise design, <br />And thank Thee that our age supplies <br />Its dark relief of sacrifice. <br />Thy will be done! <br />And if, in our unworthiness, <br />Thy sacrificial wine we press; <br />If from Thy ordeal's heated bars <br />Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, <br />Thy will be done! <br />If, for the age to come, this hour <br />Of trial hath vicarious power, <br />And, blest by Thee, our present pain, <br />Be Liberty's eternal gain, <br />Thy will be done! <br />Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys, <br />The anthem of the destinies! <br />The minor of Thy loftier strain, <br />Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, <br />Thy will be done!<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thy-will-be-done-7/
