Beneath the pressure of Thy hand
The sweetest perfume flows,
And e'er in sorrow's crucible
The subject spirit grows.

The stone unsightly must be shaped,
And fashioned, by each tool
Thy wisdom deemeth best to use,
For those who're in Thy school.

Without this wondrous workmanship
Thou usest for each one,
There could not be that blessedness,
A likeness to Thy Son.

Helen McDowell