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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.
2  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.
3  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!
4  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