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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Frederick William Faber 1814–63

The Will of God


I WORSHIP thee, sweet will of God!

And all thy ways adore;

To every day I live, I seem

To love thee more and more.

Thou wert the end, the blessed rule

Of our Saviour’s toils and tears;

Thou wert the passion of his heart

Those three and thirty years.

And he hath breath’d into my soul

A special love of thee,

A love to lose my will in his,

And by that loss be free.

I love to see thee bring to nought

The plans of wily men;

When simple hearts outwit the wise,

Oh, thou art loveliest then.

The headstrong world it presses hard

Upon the church full oft,

And then how easily thou turn’st

The hard ways into soft.

I love to kiss each print where thou

Hast set thine unseen feet;

I cannot fear thee, blessed will!

Thine empire is so sweet.

When obstacles and trials seem

Like prison walls to be,

I do the little I can do,

And leave the rest to thee.

I know not what it is to doubt,

My heart is ever gay;

I run no risk, for, come what will,

Thou always hast thy way.

I have no cares, O blessed will!

For all my cares are thine:

I live in triumph, Lord! for thou

Hast made thy triumphs mine.

And when it seems no chance or change

From grief can set me free,

Hope finds its strength in helplessness,

And gayly waits on thee.

Man’s weakness, waiting upon God,

Its end can never miss,

For men on earth no work can do

More angel-like than this.

Ride on, ride on, triumphantly,

Thou glorious will, ride on!

Faith’s pilgrim sons behind thee take

The road that thou hast gone.

He always wins who sides with God,

To him no chance is lost;

God’s will is sweetest to him, when

It triumphs at his cost.

Ill that he blesses is our good,

And unbless’d good is ill;

And all is right that seems most wrong,

If it be his sweet will.