Why for exemption should I plead,
For am I not thy child, my God?
Ah why go mourning all the day,
Or why should I from trials shrink?
Though much of sorrow’s in my cup,
The cup that I am called to drink.
’Tis needful medicine I know,
By the most skilful hand prepared,
Strictly proportioned to my wants,
There’s not a drop that can be spared.