THE hammer of Thy discipline, O Lord,

Strikes fast and hard.

Life’s anvil rings again To Thy strong strokes.

And yet we know ‘tis then

That from the heart’s iron all abroad

The rich glow spreads.

Great Fashioner Divine,

 Who spareth not, in Thy far-seeing plan,

The blows that shape the character of a man,

Or fire that makes him yield to touch of Thine,

Strike on, then, if Thou wilt!

For Thou alone Canst rightly test the temper of our will,

Or tell how these base metals may fulfil

Thy purpose-making all our life Thine own.

Only we do beseech Thee, let the pain

Of fiery ordeals through which we go

Shed all around us such a warmth and glow,

Such cheerful showers of sparks in golden rain,

That hard hearts may be melted, cold hearts fired,

And callous hearts be taught to feel and see

That discipline is more to be desired

Than all the ease that keeps us back from Thee.

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