O God, not on­ly in dis­tress,
In pain, and want, and wea­ri­ness,
Thy ten­der Spir­it stoops to bless,
Thy will is done.

But oft­en­er on the wings of peace,
And girt about with ten­der­ness,
Thou com­est, and all trou­bles cease,
Thy will is done.

In all that na­ture has sup­plied,
In flow­ers along the coun­try side,
In morn­ing light, in ev­en­tide,
Thy will is done.

And when a way­ward wind is borne,
So light­ly on a sum­mer morn,
To stir the gold­en ears of corn,
Thy will is done.

In youth­ful days when joys in­crease,
In light, in hope, in hap­pi­ness,
In qui­et times of trust­ful peace,
Thy will is done.

And when the joy of life is strong,
And hid­den mu­sic steals along
Our days with rap­ture and with song,
Thy will is done.

And when the wid­owed heart can bring
Its sor­row to Thy feet, and cling,
Till hope sur­passes sor­row­ing,
Thy will is done.

Thy will is pure, O Lord, and just,
And we, frail crea­tures of the dust,
Through good or ill, can on­ly trust,
Thy will is done.

For high above all earth­ly ill,
Thy pur­er wis­dom work­eth still;
And we would wait, and trust, un­til
Thy will is done.

And through the clouds from sun­ny skies
A light shall fall where sor­row lies;
Thou speak­est, and the heart re­plies,
Thy will is done.

Descend and make Thy good­ness known,
Claim all cre­ation for Thine own,
Then, when all hearts are Thine alone,
Thy will be done.