I Must Be Pure

Keep me from wrath, let it seem ever so right:

My wrath will never work thy righteousness.

Up, up the hill, to the whiter than snow-shine,

Help me to climb, and dwell in pardon’s light.

I must be pure as thou, or ever less

Than thy design of me—therefore incline

My heart to take men’s wrongs as thou tak’st mine.

Lord, in thy spirit’s hurricane, I pray,

Strip my soul naked—dress it then thy way.

Change for me all my rags to cloth of gold.

Who would not poverty for riches yield?

A hovel sell to buy a treasure-field?

Who would a mess of porridge careful hold

Against the universe’s birthright old?

Excerpt From

A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul

George MacDonald

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/a-book-of-strife-in-the-form-of-the-diary-of-an-old-soul/id499797732?mt=11

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