Four little words, no more —
     Easy to say;
But thoughts that went before,
     Can words convey?

The struggle, only known
     To one proud soul,
And Him whose eye alone
     Has marked the whole,

Before that stubborn will
 At length was broke,
And a low “Peace, be still!”
 One soft Voice spoke;

The pang, when that sad heart
     Its dreams resigned,
And strength was found, to part
     Those bonds long twined,

To yield that treasure up,
     So fondly clasped,
To drain that bitter cup,
     So sadly grasped!

But all is calm at last,
     “Thy will be done!”
Enough, the storm is past,
     The field is won.

Now for the peaceful breast,
     The quiet sleep;
For soul and spirit rest,
     Tranquil and deep.

Rest, whose full bliss and power
     They only know,
Who knew the bitter hour
     Of restless woe.

The rebel will subdued —
     The fond heart free —
“Thy will be done!” — all good
     That comes from Thee.

All weary thought and care,
     Lord, we resign;
Ours is to do, to bear,
     To choose is thine.

Four little words, no more —
     Easy to say;
But what was felt before,
     Can words convey?