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| I WORSHIP thee, sweet will of God! | |
| And all thy ways adore; | |
| And every day I live, I seem | |
| To love thee more and more. | |
| |
| Thou wert the end, the blessèd rule | 5 |
| Of our Saviour’s toils and tears; | |
| Thou wert the passion of his heart | |
| Those three and thirty years. | |
| |
| And he hath breathed into my soul | |
| A special love of thee, | 10 |
| A love to lose my will in his, | |
| And by that loss be free. | |
| |
| I love to see thee bring to naught | |
| The plans of wily men; | |
| When simple hearts outwit the wise, | 15 |
| Oh, thou art loveliest then. | |
| |
| The headstrong world it presses hard | |
| Upon the church full oft, | |
| And then how easily thou turn’st | |
| The hard ways into soft. | 20 |
| |
| I love to kiss each print where thou | |
| Hast set thine unseen feet; | |
| I cannot fear thee, blessèd will! | |
| Thine empire is so sweet. | |
| |
| When obstacles and trials seem | 25 |
| Like prison walls to be, | |
| I do the little I can do, | |
| And leave the rest to thee. | |
| |
| I know not what it is to doubt, | |
| My heart is ever gay; | 30 |
| I run no risk, for, come what will, | |
| Thou always hast thy way. | |
| |
| I have no cares, O blessèd will! | |
| For all my cares are thine: | |
| I live in triumph, Lord! for thou | 35 |
| Hast made thy triumphs mine. | |
| |
| And when it seems no chance or change | |
| From grief can set me free, | |
| Hope finds its strength in helplessness, | |
| And gayly waits on thee. | 40 |
| |
| Man’s weakness, waiting upon God, | |
| Its end can never miss, | |
| For men on earth no work can do | |
| More angel-like than this. | |
| |
| Ride on, ride on, triumphantly, | 45 |
| Thou glorious will, ride on! | |
| Faith’s pilgrim sons behind thee take | |
| The road that thou hast gone. | |
| |
| He always wins who sides with God, | |
| To him no chance is lost; | 50 |
| God’s will is sweetest to him, when | |
| It triumphs at his cost. | |
| |
| Ill that he blesses is our good, | |
| And unblessed good is ill; | |
| And all is right that seems most wrong, | 55 |
| If it be his sweet will. | |
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