THE COPY

Looking o'er this written page,

Many blurs and blots are seen;

Crooked strokes, at every stage —

Oh, that it again were clean,

As at first I found it, when

I defiled it with my pen!

Gladly would I all erase;

But along the lines of blue

You could still the failure trace

In the paper's darkened hue;

Though the words could not be seen,

You could trace where they had been.

I will try to do my best,

Though my ideal be not gained;

On the Master's scrip shall rest

Eager eyes, till is attained

Some resemblance to His hand;

If no more I can command.

Like my life, this written sheet,

So unlike the pattern given;

Crooked strokes, I oft repeat;

Oh, that from it could be riven

All the blurs and blots of sin;

All the self that's found within.

I can not the past erase.

Christ shall blot the crooked out,

Leaving not the slightest trace

Of my sin, the lines about;

And will give me grace to write

Pages pleasing in His sight.

I will try to do my best,

As He gives me strength and light,

Leaving with Him all the rest;

He will keep life's pages white;

And the copy shall be shown

Perfected, before His throne.