I could be, as once before,
A lover in a lover's arms,
Whisper of the things of yore,
Pretend I'm safe from any harms;
But rather than his fairest flower,
His whitest swan, most precious good,
His gem beyond compare,
I prefer at every hour
To be a simple piece of wood
In the CARPENTER's care.
What will I be? Don't ask me yet,
Nor whether with you here I'll stay
Or go to distant lands.
Don't ask me - but I do not fret,
For all I want to be is clay
In the POTTER's hands.
Yes, I'll tread the uphill way,
Face battle's heat and lonely cold,
My flame will not expire;
Because my heart longs night and day
Above all else to be the gold
In the REFINER's fire.