I hoped, that with the
brave and strong,
My portioned task might
lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.
But God has fixed another
part,
And He has fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding
heart,
When first the anguish fell.
Thou, God, hast taken our
delight,
Our treasured hope away:
Thou bid'st us now weep
through the night
And sorrow through the day.
These weary hours will not
be lost,
These days of misery,
These nights of darkness,
anguish-tost,
Can I but turn to Thee.
With secret labour to sustain
In humble patience every
blow;
To gather fortitude from
pain,
And hope and holiness from
woe.
Thus let me serve Thee from
my heart,
Whate'er may be my written
fate:
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.
If Thou shouldst bring me
back to life,
More humbled I should be;
More wise--more strengthened
for the strife--
More apt to lean on Thee.
Should death be standing
at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow:
But, Lord! whatever be my
fate,
Oh, let me serve Thee now!
