Thy will be done

Thy will be done.

How sweet the words sound—like a song carried on heaven’s breath.

We sing them in worship, voices lifted, hearts stirred. We say them to others with ease, a balm for their broken places.

A phrase of comfort, of surrender, of trust.

Yet how fiercely we wrestle with them in the secret places of our own souls.

When the night is long and the silence deafening.

When His will means letting go.

When His will means waiting.

When His will feels like loss before it feels like love.

We whisper it through clenched teeth.

We cry it through trembling lips.

We offer it not with open hands, but with shaking ones.

Thy will be done.

It is not passive.

It is not weak.

It is a declaration of faith, the evidence of things not seen.

A sword in the hand of the weary.

A battle cry in the valley of shadows.

To say it is to lay down our plans and pick up His peace. To trust that His path, though hidden, is holy. To believe that His heart is kind, even when His ways are hard.

Thy will be done is not the end of hope—

It is the beginning of healing.

It is the place where striving ceases

And surrender sings.