Thursday before Easter

Lord, exceeding sorrowful
Unto death, for sin and Thee,
O, if it be possible.
Take this bitter cup from me:
Yet since other consolation
Than Thy &your I have none,
If Thy will be that I drink it.
Then, O Lord, " Thy will be done."
Weary, Lord, and heavy laden.
Sin its sorrow on me lays,
O, if it be possible.

From my soul the burden raise:
Or, if Thou wilt stoop to share it.
Helpless though I be alone.
If Thy will be that I bear it.
Then, Lord, " Thy will be done."
In Thine hour of sore affliction
None their faithful watches kept,
Even friends of Thine election
Through Thy deepest sorrows slept:
Yet the eye that never slumbers
Lights my darkness, cheers me on.

And the voice that never wearies,
Pleads in me, " Thy will be done."
Watching by Thee in the garden,
my Saviour! let me feel
Sweet persuasion of Thy pardon
Into all my spirit steal:
And the blessed work completing
Which Thy mercy hath begun.
Ever keep my heart repeating,
"Not my will, but Thine, be done."