I pray, with meek hands on my breast,
"Thy will be done, thy kingdom come,"
But shouldst thou call my dear ones home
Should I still say, "'Tis best;
Thy will be done"?
I cannot tell. I probe my heart
With sharpest instruments of pain,
And listen if the sweet refrain
Still wells up through the smart--
"Thy will be done!"
I cannot tell. I yield the quest,
Content if only day by day
My God shall give me grace to say,
"Father, thou knowest best;
Thy will be done!"
He gives no strength for coming ill,
Until its advent. Then he rolls
His love in on his waiting souls,
Sure of their sweet "Thy will,
Thy will be done!"
"Give us this day our daily bread"--
So prayed the Christ, and so will I;
Father, my daily bread supply,
Or, if I go unfed,
"Thy will be done!"
--Caroline Atherton Mason.