He that from dross would win the precious ore
Bends o’er the crucible an earnest eye,
The subtle, searching process to explore,
Lest the one brilliant moment should pass by
When in the molten silver’s virgin mass
He meets his pictured face as in a glass.
Thus in God’s furnace are His children tried;
Thrice happy they who to the end endure!
But who the fiery trial may abide?
Who from the crucible come forth so pure,