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’TIS sweet to feel that He who tries
The silver takes His seat
Beside the fire that purifies,
Lest too intense a heat—
Raised to consume the base alloy—
The precious metals, too, destroy.
’Tis good to think how well He knows
The silver’s power to bear
The ordeal through which it goes;
And that with skill and care
He’ll take it from the fire when fit,
With His own hand to polish it.
’Tis blessedness to know that He
The piece He hath begun
Will not forsake till He can see—
To prove the work well done—
His image, by its brightness known,
Reflecting glory like His own.
But ah! how much of earthly mould,
Dark relics of the mine,
Lost from the ore, must He behold—
How long must He refine,
Ere in the silver He can trace
The first faint semblance of His face!
Thou great Refiner! sit Thou by,
Thy promise to fulfil!
Moved by Thy hand, beneath Thine eye,
And melted at Thy will,
O may Thy work forever shine,
Reflecting beauty pure as Thine!
Poems of Dawn
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