Not in dumb re­sig­na­tion
We lift our hands on high;
Not like the nerve­less fa­tal­ist
Content to trust and die;
Our faith springs like the ea­gle,
That soars to meet the sun;
And cries ex­ult­ing­ly to Thee,
O Lord, Thy will be done!

Thy will! It strength­ens weak­ness,
It bids the strong be just;
No lip to fawn, no hand to beg,
No brow to seek the dust;
Wherever man op­presses man
Beneath Thy li­ber­al sun,
O Lord, be there,
Thine arm made bare,
Thy right­eous will be done!