Proverbs Xvii. 3. Poem by Mary Anne Browne

The fining pot is for silver, and the furnace for gold, but the Lord trieth the hearts.


How shall we stand before the Lord?
How shall we speak a single word?
Our hearts but sinful thoughts can pour,
Fuller of dross than unfined ore,
More fragile than the frailest gem,
Yet Thou, the Holy, provest them!

We cannot bear the trial! Thou
Our subtlest pleas wilt overthrow;
Try us by fire, and purge away
The darkness of our clinging clay;
Try us in cold affliction's wave,
And we the heavy flood will brave;

Only one proof we cannot bear,
For one ordeal cannot prepare,—
Thy searching eye, Thy holy look,
Rending our spirits as a book,
And watching how have ever wrought
Our hearts, with every secret thought.

Yet we must bear it—there's a day,
When we this summons must obey;
How shall we fall before thine eyes,
How writhe in unknown agonies?
Father! Most Holy! every spot
Will then be seen—oh prove us not!

Hush! did not then an angel speak,
In accents merciful and meek?
'Even on this very earth, behold!
Your hearts are purified like gold;
Here by your Saviour they are proved,
That He may blameless hold His loved.'

Oh blest Redeemer! truly try
Our hearts with glorious alchemy;
So in Thy likeness shall they lie
Open before that heavenly eye;
Washed, cleansed, and pure, set free from fear,
Because they sought Thy mercy here!