My God, whose gracious pity I may claim,
Calling Thee “Father,” sweet endearing name!
The sufferings of each weak and weary frame
Are known to Thee.
From human eyes ‘tis better to conceal
Much that we suffer, much we hourly feel;
But oh! the thought does tranquillize and heal—
That all is known to Thee.
That all by Thee is ordered, chosen, planned,
Each drop that fills my daily cup Thy hand
Prescribes for ills, none else can understand.
All, all is known to Thee.
Nor will its bitter draft distasteful prove,
While I recall the Son of Thy dear love;
The cup thou wouldst not for our sakes remove—
That cup He drank for me.
He drank it to the dregs, no drop remained
Of wrath for those whose cup of woe He drained—
Man ne’er can know what that sad cup contained,
But all is known to Thee.