Eighth Sunday after Trinity

Work in me, Lord, Thy wondrous will,
Only let me be meek and still,
Let me not even think of Thee,
That thus this should, or should not be,
Content, whate'er my lot may prove,
If it be fashion d by Thy love.

"Were I mine own, then I might rest
Pleased with the things that pleased me best,
Were I an angel, I might try
To pass the teasing trouble by,
Or, were I free from sinful stain,
Might deem all trials needless pain.

But being Thine — a mortal too,
Sinful in all I think or do,
Let me rejoice, that One so high
Shrinks not from one so vile as I,
But having died to save my soul
Still takes the trouble of control.