If there be good in what I wrought,
Thy hand compelled it, Master, 1 hine;
Where I have failed to meet Thy thought
I know, through Thee, the blame is mine.
One instant's toil to Thee denied
Stands all Eternity's offence,
Of that I did with Thee to guide
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.
The depth and dream of my desire,
The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest who has made the fire,
Thou knowest who has made the clay.
One stone the more swings to her place
In that dread Temple of Thy worth-
It is enough that through Thy grace
I saw naught common on Thy earth.
-RUDYARD KIPLING.
