Master, to do great work for thee, my hand
Is far too weak! Thou givest what may suit
Some little chips to cut with care minute,
Or tint, or grave, or polish. Others stand
Before their quarried marble, fair and grand,
And make a life-work of the great design
Which thou hast traced; or, many-skilled, combine
To build vast temples, gloriously planned,
Yet take the tiny stones which I have wrought
Just one by one, as they were given by thee,
Not knowing what came next in thy wise thought.
Set each stone by thy master-hand of grace,
Form the mosaic as thou wilt for me,
And in thy temple-pavement give it place.
