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To full perfection all His purposes
Inspired by such divine beneficence
As yet we dimly know, though He has told.
Himself the Master-Builder, great and wise,
Appoints, adapts, directs, and furthers all
With infinite resources, though so oft
We marvel at His will, and say, "How long?"
Or, "How can these things be that seem so strange?"
Inspired by such divine beneficence
As yet we dimly know, though He has told.
Himself the Master-Builder, great and wise,
Appoints, adapts, directs, and furthers all
With infinite resources, though so oft
We marvel at His will, and say, "How long?"
Or, "How can these things be that seem so strange?"
Temples have been demolished, customs changed,
And types have passed away; and even now
So much, that we deem needful and divine,
And that we fain would guard as beautiful
Is touched by spoilers, and essential things
Are nigh to vanishing. Yet know we well,
Within the visible outworks, that appear
Without or form or comeliness, it grows,—
That holy temple for the Master's praise,—
Though not with observation. It may be
Oft amid noisy clamorous scenes where we
Cannot discern the unity of aim,
And what we see is rugged shapelessness,
And much must surely be ere long destroyed.
Through toil and pain it grows, hid from the gaze
Of those without, and strange to those within;
But yet it grows, it grows, and it shall grow,
Until ere long the last touch shall be put.
And often cheerily the builders greet,
And oft are they heard singing, for they see
Sure progress through apparent hindrances,
And know that nought shall fail. And ours may be
Some happy, e'en if humble, part to haste
The glad fulfilment of our Lord's designs,
For that the Master hath so bidden us.
And types have passed away; and even now
So much, that we deem needful and divine,
And that we fain would guard as beautiful
Is touched by spoilers, and essential things
Are nigh to vanishing. Yet know we well,
Within the visible outworks, that appear
Without or form or comeliness, it grows,—
That holy temple for the Master's praise,—
Though not with observation. It may be
Oft amid noisy clamorous scenes where we
Cannot discern the unity of aim,
And what we see is rugged shapelessness,
And much must surely be ere long destroyed.
Through toil and pain it grows, hid from the gaze
Of those without, and strange to those within;
But yet it grows, it grows, and it shall grow,
Until ere long the last touch shall be put.
And often cheerily the builders greet,
And oft are they heard singing, for they see
Sure progress through apparent hindrances,
And know that nought shall fail. And ours may be
Some happy, e'en if humble, part to haste
The glad fulfilment of our Lord's designs,
For that the Master hath so bidden us.
Then, though the tottering systems that enshrine,
And foster, and yet hide that wondrous growth
Fall short of satisfaction, though they oft
Seem far from beautiful, and shake and shift,
And some are falling even now; and though
And foster, and yet hide that wondrous growth
Fall short of satisfaction, though they oft
Seem far from beautiful, and shake and shift,
And some are falling even now; and though
