Volume 3 — THY WILL BE DONE

I. My soul a little kingdom is, Where God's most holy will Shall reign in undivided sway, Potent and grand and still. I'll kneel before the crystal throne, And kiss the golden rod; O peace unspeakable, to bow Before the will of God! What though my weary feet should fail. My tongue refuse to praise, God knows my soul will steadfastly Still follow in his ways. II. The time has come, my soul, the time has come To prove the depth of thy oft-vaunted love; A sullen gloom hangs round us like a fog, And lowering clouds are drooping from above. Would it were light, or dark, not this grey gloom; Would that the terror of some sudden crash Might break this stifling, dumb monotony! O for some deafening peal or blinding flash! Weary and old and sick, like ancient Job, I crouch in haggard woe and scan the past, Or drag the leaden moments at my heels, Mocking wise fools who say that life runs fast. {779} Nothing to conquer now--no call for strength; Naught to contend with--only to wait and bear, And see my withering powers and blighted gifts-- No room to act--nothing to do or dare: Speak now, my soul, if thou hast aught to say If thou seest light or any hope of day. III. Fret not this holy stillness with thy cries-- Patience, perturbed clay! Lest thou should'st drown the voice of the All-wise With clamorous dismay. Thinkest thou that clouds and mists are less God's work, Than sun or moon or stars? His will is good, whether it bind the free Or sunder prison bars. His hand has measured out each feather's weight Of this most grievous load; He bore the cross we bear, his heart, like ours, Once in life's furnace glowed. We shall in heaven sing a psalm of joy For every earth-wrung moan; One little hour more, the work well done. And we are all God's own.

There is no sound of anguish in the air, Bees hum, birds sing, the breeze is balmy-sweet And from the blooming hawthorn overhead A rosy shower droppeth at my feet. No matter! God be praised--some untried heart, Sweet with the dewy freshness of life's dawn, Is gathering a glad presage of success From this bright, pitiless, resplendent morn.