1 “Father divine!” the Saviour cried,
While horrors press'd on ev'ry side,
And prostrate on the ground he lay,
“Remove this bitter cup away.

2 “But if these pangs must still be borne,
And stripes, and wounds, and cruel scorn,
I bow my soul before thy throne,
And say, Thy will, not mine, be done.”

3 Thus our submissive souls would bow,
And, taught by Jesus, lie as low.
Our hearts, and not our lips alone,
Would say, "Thy will, not ours, be done."

4 Then, though like him in dust we lie,
We'll view the blissful moment nigh,
Which, from our portion in his pains,
Calls to the joy in which he reigns.