Thy Will Be Done

Thy Will Be Done

It is a short and simple prayer,

But 'tis the Christian's stay

Through every varied scene of care,

Until his dying-day;

As through the wilderness of life

Calmly he wanders on.

His prayer in every worldly strife

Is still, "Thy will be done."

When, in his happy infant years

He treads midst thornless flowers,

When pass away his smiles and tears,

Like April skies and showers,

Then, bending at his mother's knee,

Play-tired, at set of sun—

What is the prayer he murmurs forth—

"Father, thy will be done."

When the bright summer sky of time

Is cloudless o'er him spread—

When love's bright wreath is in its prime,

And not one blossom dead,

While o'er his hopes and prospects fair

No mist of woe has gone;

Still he repeats his first-taught prayer.

"Father, thy will be done."

And when his sun no longer beams,

And love's sweet flowers decay,

When all hope's rainbow-color'd dreams,

Are sadly swept away;

As a flow'ret bent beneath the storm,

Still fragrantly breathes on,

So, when dark clouds life's heaven deform

He prays, "Thy will be done."

And when the winter of his age

Sheds o'er his locks its snows,

And when his weary pilgrimage

Is drawing to a close—

Then, as he finds his health decline,

This is his prayer alone,

"To Thee my spirit I resign—

Father, thy will be cone."

Unattributed

1:12, p. 1

10.7.1859