UNDER THE SCULPTOR'S HAND.
Fear not, my brother, 'tis the Sculptor's hand;
Hard though the blows, they fall by his command;
We, in our blindness,
Would spare thee each blow;
God, in his kindness,
Doeth not so. Shrink not, my brother, surely he knows best
What tools to use, and when to let them rest;
Let not our wilfulness,
Strong though it be,
Hinder his skillfulness,
Perfecting thee. Thank him, my brother, that he comes so near,
Giving this proof that thou to him art dear;
Thy ways demolishing—
These are “his ways”—
Cutting and polishing
Thee for his praise. Patience, my brother; in the temple there,
The Sculptor sees the place he did prepare
From all eternity
For thee to fill.
For this he fitteth thee,
Working his will.