NOT BY CHANCE No chance has brought this ill to me; 'Tis God's sweet will, so let it be; He seeth what I cannot see. There is a need-be for each pain, And he will make it one day plain That earthly loss is heavenly gain. Like as a piece of tapestry, Viewed from the back, appears to be Naught but threads tangled hopelessly, But in the front a picture fair Rewards the worker for his care, Proving his skill and patience rare. Thou art the workman, I the frame; Lord, for the glory of thy name, Perfect thine image on the same! SUBMISSION TO GOD Whate'er God wills let that be done; His will is ever wisest; His grace will all thy hope outrun Who to that faith arisest. The gracious Lord Will help afford; He chastens with forbearing; Who God believes, And to him cleaves, Shall not be left despairing. My God is my sure confidence, My light, and my existence; His counsel is beyond my sense, But stirs no weak resistance; His word declares The very hairs Upon my head are numbered; His mercy large Holds me in charge With care that never slumbered. There comes a day when at his will The pulse of nature ceases. I think upon it, and am still, Let come whate'er he pleases. To him I trust My soul, my dust, When flesh and spirit sever; The Christ we sing Has plucked the sting Away from death forever. --Albert of Brandenburg, 1586. THY WILL BE DONE We see not, know not; all our way Is night; with thee alone is day. From out the torrent's troubled drift, Above the storm our prayers we lift: Thy will be done! The flesh may fail, the heart may faint. But who are we to make complaint Or dare to plead, in times like these, The weakness of our love of ease? Thy will be done! We take, with solemn thankfulness, Our burden up, nor ask it less, And count it joy that even we May suffer, serve, or wait for thee, Whose will be done! Though dim as yet in tint and line, We trace thy picture's wise design, And thank thee that our age supplies Its dark relief of sacrifice. Thy will be done! And if, in our unworthiness, Thy sacrificial wine we press; If from thy ordeal's heated bars Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done! If, for the age to come, this hour Of trial hath vicarious power, And, blest by thee, our present pain Be liberty's eternal gain, Thy will be done. Strike, thou the Master, we thy keys, The anthem of the destinies! The minor of thy loftier strain, Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, Thy will be done! --John Greenleaf Whittier.