While o'er the closing, silent tomb,
The bleeding heart distils the tear,--
Though love its tribute sure will pay,
And early streams of solace shun,
Still, still the humble soul would say,
In lowly dust, "Thy will be done."
2Whate'er, O Lord, thou hast designed
To bring my soul to thee in trust,
If miseries or afflictions kind,--
For all thy dealings, Lord, are just,--