MY God a Furnace hath of fire, | |
| Its chambers all with flame aglow, | |
| ’Tis fann’d in love, and not in ire, | |
| And on the coals He oft doth blow; | |
| A Furnace kindled with His breath, | 5 |
| Cruel, and keen, and sharp as death. | |
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| Why doth He thus His fires prepare, | |
| And fan them till they fiercely burn, | |
| To scathe us with their angry glare, | |
| Whichever way we move or turn? | 10 |
| That He may plunge His people in, | |
| And cleanse them throughly from their sin. | |
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| He treats us as the goldsmith treats | |
| The ruddy gold he prizeth well, | |
| Who makes it pass thro’ savage heats, | 15 |
| And melts it in his crucible; | |
| And this he does because he knows | |
| ’Tis destined for a monarch’s brows. | |
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| God’s fires burn up the seeds of ill | |
| Which lurk within the secret heart; | 20 |
| God’s fires melt down the hardest will, | |
| And sever dross and gold apart; | |
| Thro’ all the spirit’s depths they run, | |
| Until their cleansing work is done. | |
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| Oft at white heat the furnace stands, | 25 |
| Ready the evil to consume, | |
| To shrivel up sin’s strongest bands, | |
| With fires as fierce as those of doom; | |
| For some He heats it seven times more | |
| Than He has heated it before. | 30 |
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| But in the furnace fires so keen, | |
| God doth not leave us all alone, | |
| And tho’ His presence is not seen, | |
| There walks beside us His dear Son, | |
| Who comforts us and doth sustain, | 35 |
| And takes from suffering half its pain. | |
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| And when His fires have wrought their aim | |
| And sullen hardness all is gone, | |
| God takes us from the burning flame, | |
| To place us on His Anvil stone, | 40 |
| And there with patience wondrous kind, | |
| He moulds and shapes us to His mind. | |
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| We shrink indeed from all the pain, | |
| The furnace blast, the hammer’s blow, | |
| We pray to ’scape them, but in vain, | 45 |
| For God knows well it must be so; | |
| That if we would be clean and pure, | |
| The searching flame we must endure. | |
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| We need the frequent hammer’s stroke, | |
| One blow doth not accomplish all, | 50 |
| It is not thus that hearts are broke, | |
| Oft and again the sledge must fall; | |
| And ’tis our fault that we require | |
| God’s Anvil, and God’s Furnace fire. | |
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| But let us thank Him for the pain | 55 |
| That separates the gold from dross, | |
| That purges us from soil and stain, | |
| E’en tho’ it be at our sore loss; | |
| Why should we quail, when God desires | |
| To make us perfect thro’ His fires? | 60 |
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