Classic Poem

Thy way, O God, is best,—
Thy way, not mine;
Patient beneath Thy rod,
Quick to obey Thy nod,
Because Thou art my God,—
Thy way, not mine.

I know Thy wise design;
Thy will is mine.
From earthly dross refine,
Shape to the mould divine,
My soul shall ne'er repine,—
Thy will, not mine.

Clay in the potter's hand,
Thy will is mine.
'T is Thine, the vase to make,
Or Thine, dear Lord, to break;
Thine, or to give, or take,—
Thy will, not mine.

Sorrow, or joy, be sent,—
Thy will is mine;
In all, Thy love I see;
Whate'er my lot may be,
I trust my all to Thee,—
Thy will is mine.