No seraph form was seen to speed,
Nor yet the voice of comfort spake;
3 Till, by thine own triumphant word,
The victory over ill was won;
Until the voice of faith was heard,
“Thy will, O God, not mine, be done!”
4 Lord, bring those precious moments back,
When fainting against sin we strain;
Or in thy counsels fail to track
Aught but the present grief and pain.