Iv

Ah, that sharp thrill through all my frame! And yet once more! Withstand I can no longer; in Thy name I yield me to Thy hand.

Such pangs were in the soul unborn, The fear, the joy were such, When first it felt in that keen morn A dread, creating touch.

Maker of man, Thy pressure sure This grosser stuff must quell; The spirit faints, yet will endure, Subdue, control, compel.

The Potter’s finger shaping me.... Praise, praise! the clay curves up Not for dishonour, though it be God’s least adornèd cup.