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In the furnace of sorrow,
affliction, and care,
Refine me, dear Lord, and leave
the dross there.
Oh, shape me and mold me in Your
will today,
Since You are the Potter, and I am the
clay.
I want to help others and speak words
of cheer,
And hide all my heartaches, my sorrow and
fear.
Lord, teach me to profit form suffering and
pain,
Be quick to forgive and slow to
complain.
And all those who sorrow, their
eyes filled with tears,
May I be the one who can
quiet their fears.
I want my influence and actions to
be,
Filled, overflowing with true
sympathy.
It may be some soul is close to
the brink,
And it may be later than even we
think.
So help me, dear Lord, that this prayer will
come true;
Then may my life prove it in all that I
do.
© W. A.
Bixler
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