615. L. M. Anonymous. |Thy will be done.|

1 When called, O Lord, to mourn the doom
Of one affection held most dear, --
While o'er the closing, silent tomb,
The bleeding heart distils the tear, --
Though love its tribute sure will pay,
And early streams of solace shun,
Still, still the humble soul would say,
In lowly dust, |Thy will be done.|

2 Whate'er, O Lord, thou hast designed
To bring my soul to thee in trust,
If miseries or afflictions kind, --
For all thy dealings, Lord, are just, --
Take all, but grant, in goodness free,
That love which ne'er thy stroke should shun;
Support this heart and strengthen me
To say in faith, |Thy will be done.|