In the still air the mu­sic lies un­heard;
In the rough mar­ble beau­ty hides un­seen;
To make the mu­sic and the beau­ty, needs
The mas­ter’s touch, the sculpt­or’s chi­sel keen.

Great Mas­ter, touch us with Thy skill­ful hand;
Let not the mu­sic that is in us die;
Great Sculpt­or, hew and po­lish us, nor let,
Hidden and lost, Thy form with­in us lie.

Spare not the stroke; do with us what Thou wilt;
Let there be naught un­fin­ished, brok­en, marred;
Complete Thy pur­pose that we may be­come
Thy per­fect im­age, O our God and Lord.