He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower;

Alike they’re needful for the flower;

And joys and tears alike are sent

To give the soul fit nourishment:

As comes to me or cloud or sun,

Father, thy will, not mine, be done!

2 Can loving children e’er reprove

With murmurs whom they trust and love?

Creator, I would ever be

A trusting, loving child to thee:

As comes to me or cloud or sun,

Father, thy will, not mine, be done!

3 O ne’er will I at life repine!

Enough that thou hast made it mine;

When fall the shadow cold of death,

I yet will sing, with parting breath—

As comes to me or shade or sun,

Father, thy will, not mine, be done!