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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