Nor yet the voice of comfort spake;
2Till, by thine own triumphant word,
The victory over, ill was won;
Till the sweet, mournful cry was heard,
"Thy will, O God, not mine, be done!"
3Lord, bring these precious moments back,
When, fainting, against sin we strain;
Or in thy counsels fail to track
Aught but the present grief and pain.
4In weakness, help us to contend;