Rising dross

Lord, more and more
I pray Thee, or by wind or fire,
Make pure my inmost heart’s desire,
And purge the clinging chaff from off the floor.

I wish Thy way,
But when in me myself would rise
And long for something otherwise,
Then, Holy One, take sword and spear and slay.

Oh, stay near by,
Most patient Love, till, by Thy grace,
In this poor silver, Thy bright face
Shows forth in clearness and serenity.

What will it be
When, like the lily or the rose
That in my flowery garden blows,
I shall be flawless, perfect, Lord, to Thee?

~ Amy Carmichael