The Copy

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.