It is Thy hand, my God!
My sorrow comes from Thee!
I bow beneath Thy chastening 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!"

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 works for good to me!