Classic Poem

My purest longings spring
From the divine,
The sweetest songs I sing
They are not mine,

I chisel the rude stone
With feverish hand,
The statue comes alone
At God's command.

Beyond earth's tainted air
I sometimes fly
On wings of faith and prayer;
Yet 'tis not I.

Not I but He enlights
My flickering creeds,
Not I but He unites
My shattered deeds;

Not I but God, for He,
My larger life,
Fulfils Himself in me
With ceaseless strife.