Let the scholar and divine Tell us how to pray aright; Let the truths of Gospel shine With their precious hallow'd light; But the prayer a mother taught. Is to me a matchless one; Eloquent and spirit-fraught Are the words—"Thy will be done."
Though not fairly understood, Still those words, at evening hour, Implied some Being, great and good, Of mercy, majesty, and power. Bending low on infant knee, And gazing on the setting sun, I thought that orb his home must be, To whom I said—"Thy will be done."
I have searched the sacred page, I have heard the godly speech; But the lore of saint or sage Nothing holier can teach. Pain has wrung my spirit sore, But my soul the triumph won; When the anguish that I bore Only breathed—"Thy will be done."
They have served in pressing need, Have nerved my heart in every task; And howsoe'er my breast may bleed, No other balm of prayer I ask, When my whiten'd lips declare Life's last sands have almost run, May the dying breath they bear Murmur forth—Thy will be done!"
