It may well be that wrong rides high;

                                That righteous men must weep and sigh,

                                That tyrants’ boots grind hard the poor,

                                And life itself is hard endured.

                                        It may well be that this befall;

                                        Still, I find in Him no fault at all.

                                It may well be that all seems lost;

                                That all seems gone except the cost,

                                That forward progress meets a wall,

                                And all the stars from heaven fall.

                                        It may well be that this befall;

                                        Still, I find in Him no fault at all.

                                No fault at all in Him I find;

                                No weaknesses of any kind.

                                All the closer the inspection;

                                All the more is His perfection.

                                And though this sad terrestrial ball

                                        Bear naught but thorns from Adam’s fall,

                                        Still, I find in Him no fault at all.