WHEN peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows, like sea-billows, roll, Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, Let this blest assurance control, That Christ has regarded my helpless estate, And has shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin—O the bliss of this glorious thought!— My sin, not in part, but the whole, Is nailed to His cross, and I bear it no more: Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming, we wait; The sky, not the grave, is our goal; O trump of the angel! O voice of the Lord! Blessèd hope! blessèd rest of my soul!
Horatio Gates Spafford, 1828-88