1. In the dark’ning night of his suff’ring, Bitter cup of dread overrun, Jesus prayed in firm resolution: “Not my will, but thine, be done.” Sore amazed and heavy with sorrow, He drained the dregs and victory won.
2. Turning now, our weeping is bitter. Pride effaced, we look on the Son. As we fall, we cry to the Father: “Not my will, but thine, be done.” With his pow’r we rise, now renewèd To praise with love th’Atoning One.
3. Mists of darkness gather around us, But we know the path we’ve begun— Calling out when trials assail us: “Not my will, but thine, be done.” Anchoring our souls to our Savior; He leads us to the light of the sun.
4. Now is come the time of the harvest— Lab’rers in the vineyard, we run— Searching out the humble who echo: “Not my will, but thine, be done.” Finally the knee of ev’ry soul Will bow when earth and heaven are one.