Where crimson-blank the windows flare.
By my own work before the night,
Great Overseer, I make my prayer.
Thy Hand compelled it, Master, Thine--
Where I have failed to meet Thy Thought
I know, through Thee, the blame was mine.
Stands all Eternity’s offence.
Of that I did with Thee to guide,
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.
The bitter paths wherein I stray--
Thou knowest Who has made the Fire,
Thou knowest Who has made the Clay.
Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain--
Godlike to muse o'er his own Trade
And manlike to stand with God again!
In that dread Temple of Thy worth.
It is enough that, through Thy Grace,
I saw nought common on Thy Earth.
Oh, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed,
Help me to need no aid from men
That I many help such men as need!