New Hymns for Solitude: 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.