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In His Workshop

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Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Jan 25, 1910

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 37, No. 4.

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In His Workshop

BENEATH Thy hammer, Lord, I lie, With contrite spirit, prone; O, mold me till to self I die, And live to Thee alone!
With frequent disappointments sore, And many a bitter pain, Thou laborest at my being's core, Till I be formed again.
Smite, Lord; Thy hammer's needful wound My baffled hopes confess; Thine anvil is the sense profound Of mine own nothingness.
Smite, till from all its idols free, And filled with love divine, My heart shall know no good but Thee, And have no will but Thine. — Author Unknown.