“Himself hath done it” all—Oh, how those words
Should hush to silence every murmuring thought!
Himself hath done it—He who loves me best,
He who my soul with His own blood hath bought.
“Himself hath done it.”—Yes, although severe
May seem the stroke, and bitter be the cup,
‘Tis His own hand that holds it, and I know
He’ll give me grace to drink it meekly up.
“Himself hath done it.”—Oh, no arm but His
Could e’er sustain beneath earth’s dreary lot;
But while I know He’s doing all things well,
My heart His loving-kindness questions not.
“Himself hath done it.”—He who ‘s searched me through,
See how I clave to earth’s ensnaring ties;
And so He breaks each reed on which my soul
Too much for happiness and joy relies.
“Himself hath done it.”—He would have me see
What broken cisterns human friends must prove;
That I may turn and quench my burning thirst
At His own fount of ever-living love.
“Himself hath done.”—Then I fain would say,
“Thy will in all things for evermore be done;”
E’en though that will remove whom best I love,
While Jesus lives I cannot be alone.
And when, in His eternal presence blest,
I at His feet my crown immortal cast,
I’ll gladly own, with all His ransomed saints,
“Himself hath done it.”—all, from first to last.