1 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. 2 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. 3 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. 4 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. 5 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! 6 One stone the more swings into place In that dread Temple of Thy worth. It is enough that, through Thy Grace. I saw nought common on Thy Earth. 7 Take not that vision from my ken– Oh whatsoe'er may spoil or speed. Help me to need no aid from men That I may help such men as need!
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