And where the shapeless block had been, an angel stood instead.
Oh, blows that smite, oh, pangs that pierce this shrinking heart of mine,
What are ye but the Master’s tools, forming a work divine?
Oh, hope that crumbles at my feet, oh, joy that mocks and flies,
What are ye but the bond that keeps my spirit from the skies?
Sculptor of souls, I lift to Thee my cumbered heart and hands,
Spare not the chisel, set me free, however dear the bands;
How blest if all these seeming ills which turn my heart to Thee,
Shall only prove that Thou wilt make an angel out of me.”
Even within the vilest sinner, there is a glorious possibility. Once in the hands of Christ, hidden beauty will shine forth and deformity will disappear. So beautiful will he make the soul that it will be fit for the inheritance of the saints in light.