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God's hand that saves, though kind, seems rough;
His methods sometimes rude;
Frail shrinking nature cries, "Enough!"
Yet proves the Lord is good.
The temple stones God now prepares
Oft cry, "You hurt me sore";
The Sculptor seeks their perfectness,
And trims them more and more—
Until, by dint of strokes and blows,
The shapeless mass appears
Symmetric, polished, beautiful,
To stand th' eternal years.
Out of the crushed and mangled grapes,
Comes forth the sparkling wine;
If God but still my portion is,
Be such experience mine.
Kept while the furnace, heated white,
Shall purge the dross away!
Thy judgments, Lord, are true and right,
And brighter ev'ry day.