Oh come, wouldst thou be like Him, Thy Lord Divine, and mark What sharpest sorrows strike Him, What anguish deep and dark,-- That earnest cry to spare Him, The trial scarce begun? Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" Oh wherefore doth His spirit Such bitter conflict know? What sins, what crimes could merit Such deep and awful woe? So pure are not the heavens, So clear the noonday sun, And yet He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" Oh mark that night of sorrow, That agony of prayer; No friend can watch till morrow His grief to soothe and share; Oh where shall He find comfort? With God, with God alone, And still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" Hath life for Him no gladness, No joy the light of day? Can He then feel no sadness, When heart and hope give way? That cup of mortal anguish One bitter cry hath won, That it might pass: "Yet, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" And who the cup prepared Him, And who the poison gave? 'Twas one He loved ensnared Him, 'Twas those He came to save. Oh sharpest pain, to suffer Betray'd and mock'd--alone; Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" But what is joy or living, What treachery or death, When all His work, His striving, Seems hanging on His breath? Oh can it stand without Him, That work but just begun? Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" He speaks; no more He shrinketh, Himself He offers up; He sees it all, yet drinketh For us that bitter cup, He goes to meet the traitor, The cross He will not shun,-- He saith: "I come, My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" My Saviour, I will never Forget Thy word of grace, But still repeat it ever, Through good and evil days; And looking up to heaven, Till all my race is run, I'll humbly say: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" W. HEY, 1828. FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. Be thou content; be still before His face, at whose right hand doth reign Fulness of joy for evermore, Without whom all thy toil is vain. He is thy living spring, thy sun, whose rays Make glad with life and light thy weary days. Be thou content. In Him is comfort, light, and grace, And changeless love beyond our thought; The sorest pang, the worst disgrace, If He is there, shall harm thee not. He can lift off thy cross, and loose thy bands, And calm thy fears, nay, death is in His hands. Be thou content.