Thou God of mercy, Thou who art
To Abraham a sword and shield,
Must I myself, an infant, yield
Unto the desert’s burning heart?
Have I been so undutiful
That this death be my recompense,
That Ishmael in his innocence
Should die so young and beautiful?
Is he so worthless in Thy sight,
Is all that he might do and be
So insignificant to Thee
Who lovest justice, truth, and right?
But though I crave Thy tenderness,
No longer will I plead with Thee
Whate’er Thy will so let it be.
For even death can bring but rest.
So not unto the burning sands
Do I commend my dearest joy,
My innocent, my precious boy,
But into Thy most gracious hands.
But I am like a wreck at sea;
My throat is parched, my heart is sore;
I sigh for rest, not that of yore.
Do to me, Lord, as pleaseth Thee.