THE DIVINE SCULPTOR.
By Mrs. EMILY J. BUGBEE.
I feel the chiseling touch,
And know that I shall stand,
Finished and shapely as the work,
Of the designer’s hand.
Though cruel is the pain
From His unceasing blows,
I hold me, trustfully and still,
What time “the Angel grows.”
Through slowly passing years,
With an unerring skill,
His hand, with patient, tireless care,
Is shaping to His will;
That when I stand unveiled
Before His glorious throne,
No traces in me shall be found
Of the unsightly stone.
He sees what I shall be,
Through all the rough disguise,
And knows, at every stroke he gives,
Some earthward clinging dies.
Some harsh discordant part,
Is rounded into grace;
Some likeness of the pattern true
Is fashioned in its place.
Work on, oh, Master hand,
I gladly yield to thee,
Until within thy loftiest thought
I stand complete and free;
Thy glorious design
I would not mar or break,
I shall be satisfied I know,
When perfected I wake.
