What though temptations fierce allure thee,
Poor child— storm-tossed!
Though all the waves of sin surge o'er thee
Thou'lt not be lost.
If, when dumb anguish drives thee onward,
(And hope seems dead,)
Thou still with thy firm gaze fixed God-ward
The wine-press tread,
Till self lies crushed at last beneath thee,
Its passions stilled:
Then quick from thy Gethsemane,
And newly thrilled,
The peace that's born of conquered sorrow
Thou sure shalt see,
And ere to-day becomes to-morrow,
God's signal free
Shall pass thee on to heights eternal,
Where waits the joy
That thou hast earned, of things supernal,
Free from alloy.
Upon thee, then, the bright Shekinah
Shall radiance shed,
Showing thee Love, Divine Refiner,
Thy footsteps led.
