Does not thy heart begin to feel
The claims of Him who wounds to heal?
’Tis true, my child, misfortune’s blast
But breaks the rock whence gems are cast;
The polished steel and marble white,
Was once as rough and dark as night.
As purest gold and clearest glass
Must through the hottest furnace pass,
So oft repeated strokes are given,
To form and fit a soul for Heaven.