Classic Poem

Thou shalt do what Thou wilt with thine own hand,
Thou form'st the spirit like the moulded clay;
For those who love Thee keep thy just command,
And in thine image grow as they obey;
New tints and forms with every hour they take,
Whose life is fashioned by thy spirit's power;
The crimson dawn is round them when they wake,
And golden triumphs wait the evening hour;
The queenly-sceptred night their souls receive,
And spreads their pillows 'neath her sable tent;
And o'er their slumbers unseen angels breathe,
The rest Thou hast to all who labor lent;
That they may rise refreshed to light again,
And with Thee gather in the whitening grain.