No chance has wrought this ill to me,
Tis God’s sweet will, so let it be;
He seeth what I cannot see.
There is a need-be for each pain,
And He will make it one day plain
That earthly loss is heavenly gain.
Like as a piece of tapestry,
Viewed from the back, appears to be
Naught but threads tangled hopelessly,
But in the front a picture fair
Rewards the worker for his care,
Proving his skill and patience rare.
Thou art the workman, I the frame.
Lord, for the glory of Thy name,
Perfect Thine image on the same.