How slow the forming—
how hard some blows—
But I, the stone, must come to know
In my own person, my own soul,
Thy will, Thy purpose here below.
O Master, now I plead to Thee,
Cut off my roughness, form my face,
Refine my feelings, make of me
A fit reflection of Thy grace.
Yea, haste the day when I may kneel
Before Thee and great Elohim,
Accepted, peaceful in Thy home,
At last like Thee, each grain of stone.
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