2 What though in lonely grief I sigh
For friends beloved no longer nigh;
Submissive still would I reply,
“Thy will be done!”
3 If thou shouldst call me to resign
What most I prize—it ne’er was mine;
I only yield thee what was thine:
“Thy will be done!”
4 If but my fainting heart be blest
With thy sweet Spirit for its guest,