IT is Thy hand, my God!
My sorrow comes from Thee:
I bow beneath Thy chast'ning rod;
'Tis love that bruises me.
I would not murmur, Lord;
Before Thee I am dumb;
Lest I should breathe one murmuring word,
To Thee for help I come.
My God-Thy name is love,
A Father's hand is Thine;
With tearful eyes I look above,
And cry, "Thy will be mine!”
I know Thy will is right,
Though it may seem severe;
Thy path is still unsullied light,
Though dark it oft appear.
Jesus for me hath died;
Thy Son Thou didst not spare:
His pierced hands, His bleeding side,
Thy love for me declare.
Here my poor heart can rest;
My God, it cleaves to Thee:
Thy will is love, Thine end is blest;
All work for good to me.