I lay my hand upon my mouth, dear Lord,
As Job did long ago, who did no wrong,
But proved, although he didn't speak a word,
That his great love for Thee was ever strong.
I lay my hand across my lips, great God,
And vow to keep my silence evermore,
Nor not complain, though rack of mind and bod
Hath left me prostrate, lying on the floor.
Yea, these my wounds do bleed, but as Thy Son
Whom Thou unto his crucifixion brought,
Nor shall I speak a word to anyone,
And even shall efface it from my thought.
Though I despisèd am, yet I will say
It is Thy will, Lord, Thy mysterious way.

For I have felt despair. Not many souls
Have known its like, before their transmigration,
And lived to tell. My misery consoles
Me thus: that Thou hast willed my devastation.
That Thou hast thus, dear Father, Jesus Christ
In his enduring suffering attested
Upon his cross, redemption sorely priced
For us, his sheep; or else we had been bested
In these our tests and tribulations many,
In these, dry days when we called out in thirst,
When souls sought solace, never finding any,
And even our best wishes were accurst.
Yet thus our lives are lived. In pain and sorrow
We find the strength to lead us to tomorrow.