O, Savior! who affliction’s vale hast trod,
I pray thee to avert the threat’ning rod!
This was thy prayer, Jehovah’s equal Son!
Now may it reach thy glorious abode!
But, if my darling’s mortal race be run,
O, give me grace to say, thy blessed will be done!
XXIV.
If I could arbitrate my doom, and choose
What should be on the morrow, I would fear
Jehovah’s high prerogative to use.