1 Now the crucible is breaking;

Now my faith its seal is taking;

Molten gold, unhurt by fire,

Only thus, ’tis ever given,

Up to joys of highest heaven,

For God’s children to aspire.

2 Thus by griefs the Lord is moulding

Mind and spirit, here unfolding

His own image, to endure.

Now he shapes our dust, but later

Is the inner man’s creator;

Thus he works by trial sure.

3 Sorrows quell our insurrection,

Bring our members to subjection,

Under Christ’s prevailing will;

While the broken powers he raises

To the work of holy praises

Quietly and softly still.

4 Sorrows gather home the senses,

Lest, seduced by earth’s pretenses,

They should after idols stroll,

Like an angel-guard, repelling

Evil from the inmost dwelling,

Bringing order to the soul.

5 Sorrow now the harp is stringing

For the everlasting singing,

Teaching us to soar above;

Where the blessed choir, palm-bearing,

Harps are playing, crowns are wearing,

Round the throne with songs of love.

6 Sorrow makes alert and daring;

Sorrow is our clay preparing

For the cold rest of the grave;

Sorrow is a herald, hasting,

Of that springtide whose unwasting

Health the dying soul shall save.

7 Sorrow makes our faith abiding,

Lowly, childlike, and confiding;

Sorrow! who can speak thy grace?

Earth may name the tribulation,

Heaven has nobler appellation;

Not thus honored all our race.

8 Brethren these our perturbations,

Step by step, through many stations,

Lead disciples to their sun.

Soon, though many a pang has wasted,

Soon, though many a death been tasted,

Sorrow’s watch of sighs is done.

9 Though the healthful powers were