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My Times Are In Thy Hand.
By Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow
My times are in thy hand, my God!
And I rejoice that they are so;
My times are in thy hand, my God,
Whether it be for weal or woe.
My times are in thy hand, I know;
And if I'm washed in Jesus' blood,
Though dark my pathway here below,
It leads directly up to God.
Since all thy children chastening need,
And all so called must feel the rod,
Why for exemption should I plead,
For am I not thy child, my God?
Ah why go mourning all the day,
Or why should I from trials shrink?
Though much of sorrow's in my cup,
The cup that I am called to drink.
'Tis needful medicine I know,
By the most skilful hand prepared,
Strictly proportioned to my wants,
There's not a drop that can be spared.
Then why desponding, oh my soul,
Because of trials here below?
They're all appointed by my God,
My times are in thy hand, I know.
Jan. 18, 1863.
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