1 I take this pain, Lord Jesus,
From Thine own hand;
The strength to bear it bravely
Thou wilt command;
I am too weak for effort,
So let me rest,
In hush of sweet submission,
On Thine own breast.
2 I take this pain, Lord Jesus,
As proof indeed
That Thou art watching closely
My truest need;
That Thou, my good physician,
Art working still;
That all Thine own good pleasure
Thou wilt fulfil.
3 ‘Tis Thy dear hand, O Saviour,
That presseth sore—
The hand that bears that nail-prints
Forevermore;
And now beneath its shadow,
Hidden by Thee,
The pressure only tell me
Thou lovest me.