O Lord, my God, do Thou Thy holy will;

I will lie still

I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm,

And break the charm,

Which lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast,

In perfect rest.

To the sill wrestling of the lonely heart

Doth Christ impart

The virtue of His midnight agony,

When none was nigh,

Save God and one good angel, to The tempest’s rage.

"O Father, not My will, but Thine, be done,"

So spake the Son

Be this our charm, mellowing earth’s ruder noise

Of griefs and joys;

That we may cling for ever to Thy breast

In perfect rest.