Glory to that vic­to­ri­ous grace,
Thro’ which a worm can all things do!
I stand o’er­whelmed with vast amaze,
And scarce be­lieve the won­der true;
’Tis more than heart could e’er con­ceive,
I know my child is dead—and live!

Where is the pas­sion­ate re­gret,
The fond complaint, and lin­ger­ing smart?
Can I my suck­ing child for­get,
So free­ly with my Is­aac part,
So cheerfully my all resign,
And triumph in the will divine?

Son of my womb, my joy, my hope,
He lived, my yearning heart’s desire,
Yet lo! I gladly give him up,
No longer mine, if God require,
And with a sudden stroke remove,
Whom only less than God I love.

Nature would cry, My son, my son!
O that I now had died for thee!
But faith replies, His will be done,
Who lent the blessing first to me;
Lent, and resumes, it is the Lord!
His will be done, His name adored!

With all my soul, O Lord, I give
The child Thy love hath snatched away;
On earth I would not have him live,
With me I would not have him stay;
The sacrifice long since was o’er,
I stand to what I gave before.

I all have left for Je­su’s sake,
And shall I grieve to part with one!
No, if a wish could call him back,
I would not have my darling son
Brought from his ev­er­last­ing rest,
Snatched from his heav’nly Fa­ther’s breast.

Pass a few fleeting days, or years,
And I shall see my child again;
When Je­sus in the clouds appears,
With Him I shall in glo­ry reign,
I and the children He hath giv’n,
Inseparably joined in Heav’n.