1 |Father divine!| the Saviour cried,
While horrors pressed on every side,
And prostrate on the ground he lay,
|Remove this bitter cup away.
2 |But if these pangs must still be borne,
Or helpless man be left forlorn,
I bow my soul before thy throne,
And say, -- Thy will, not mine, be done!|
3 Thus our submissive souls would bow,
And, taught by Jesus, lie as low;
Our hearts, and not our lips alone,
Would say, -- Thy will, not ours, be done!