| My new-cut ashlar takes the light |
| Where crimson-blank the windows flare. |
| By my own work before the night, |
| Great Overseer, I make my prayer. |
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| If there be good in that I wrought |
| Thy Hand compelled it, Master, Thine - |
| Where I have failed to meet Thy Thought |
| I know, through Thee, the blame was mine. |
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| One instant's toil to Thee denied |
| Stands all Eternity’s offence. |
| Of that I did with Thee to guide, |
| To Thee, through Thee, be excellence. |
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| The depth and dream of my desire, |
| The bitter paths wherein I stray - |
| Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire, |
| Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay. |
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| Who, lest all thought of Eden fade, |
| Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain - |
| Godlike to muse o’er his own Trade |
| And manlike stand with God again! |
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| One stone the more swings into place |
| In that dread Temple of Thy worth. |
| It is enough that, through Thy Grace, |
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| Oh, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed. |
| Help me to need no aid from men |
| That I may help such men as need! |