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 horn 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!

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