The Clay

Thou shalt do what Thou wilt with thine own hand, Thou form'st the spirit like the moulded clay; For those who love Thee keep thy just command, And in thine image grow as they obey; New tints and forms with every hour they take Whose life is fashioned by thy spirit's power; The crimson dawn is round them when they wake, And golden triumphs wait the evening hour; The queenly-sceptred night their souls receives, And spreads their pillows 'neath her sable tent; Above them Sleep their palm with poppy weaves, Sweet rest Thou hast to all who labor lent; That they may rise refreshed to light again And with Thee gather in the whitening grain.