THE DIVINE SCULPTOR.

I feel the chiseling touch, And know that I shall stand, Finished and shapely as the work, Of the designer’s hand. Though cruel is the pain From His unceasing blows, I hold me, trustfully and still, What time “the Angel grows.” Through slowly passing years, With an unerring skill, His hand, with patient, tireless care, Is shaping to His will; That when I stand unveiled Before His glorious throne, No traces in me shall be found Of the unsightly stone. He sees what I shall be, Through all the rough disguise, And knows, at every stroke he gives, Some earthward clinging dies. Some harsh discordant part, Is rounded into grace; Some likeness of the pattern true Is fashioned in its place. Work on, oh, Master hand, I gladly yield to thee, Until within thy loftiest thought I stand complete and free; Thy glorious design I would not mar or break, I shall be satisfied I know, When perfected I wake.