1 God sendeth sun, He sendeth shower;
Alike they’re needful for the flower,
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nournishment:
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done.

2 Can loving children e’er reprove,
With murmurs, those 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 falls the shadow cold of death,
I yet will sing with prating breath,
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done.