THE purple grape must be crushed
To make the sweet, red wine,
And furnace fires must fiercely burn,
The drossy gold to refine ;
The wheel must cruelly grind,
Else where the jewel's light ?
And the steel submit to the polishing,
Or how would the sword grow bright ?

How then, my soul, wilt thou
The Spirit's fruits possess,
Except thou lovingly yield thyself
To the Hand that wounds to bless ?
Then patiently let the fire
Consume all earthly dross -
Thou canst not hope to wear the Crown,
If thou refuse the Cross !