The Refiner

The Master Refiner with quiet intentness
Is watching the silver and tending the fire-
Not a twitch of His eyelids! With hand sure and steady,
He knows just the heat that the process requires.
He bends to examine the purified silver,
His holy face mirrored-and now, is it clean?
His light He holds closer, but no, in the shimmer
Still speckles of dross on the surface are seen.
Again and again He the cauldron holds over
 The flame-not of wrath, but a fire of love.
Molten the silver, the bubbling and boiling
Is jealously watched by the eye from above.
He bends yet again. Ah yes! Now His visage
Is perfectly mirrored, the dross burned at last,
Ready to mold to the form of His image,
To be stamped, to be used, to be poured in His cast.
Now if speech be of silver, and silence be golden,
Lord, stoke up the fire and purify me.
Help me to discern what is scantified silence
And with equal discernment, speak gladly for Thee.
And even as Job, when affliction receeded,
Put his hand on his mouth, learned at last to be still,
Help me to yeild to Thy fires of discipline
Till clean of all dross, I succumb to thy will.
O Master Refiner, I pray do not spare me!
Trusting Thy wisdom, I yield to Thy flame,
Till, pure of all dross, I reflect Thy bright image
And, molded for service, I'm stamped with Thy name.
-Peter Toews (translated from German)