The Copy

A poem by Joseph Horatio Chant

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.

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