Oh, the splendor of the Son,

bowing in the midnight shade—

Your will, not mine, be done.

 

With the lights of supper gone,

He faced the dark and prayed.

Oh, the splendor of the Son.

 

Freely, tears began to run

as His purpose weighed.

Your will, not mine, be done.

 

The perfect Holy One

to be like sinners made.

Oh, the splendor of the Son!

 

Though all the rest would run,

the King of heaven stayed:

Your will, not mine, be done.

 

The war on darkness won

when humility displayed

the splendor of the Son:

Your will, not mine, be done.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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