Satan, thy might
    I do defy;
  Live core of night,
    I patient lie: 
  A wind comes up the gray
  Will blow thee clean away.

  Christ’s angel, Death,
    All radiant white,
  With one cold breath
    Will scare thee quite,
  And give my lungs an air
  As fresh as answered prayer.

  So, Satan, do
    Thy worst with me,
  Until the True
    Shall set me free,
  And end what He began,
  By making me a man.

“It is not much of poetry, Ruth!” he said, raising his eyes from the paper; “—­no song of thrush or blackbird!  I am ashamed that I called it a cock-crow—­for that is one of the finest things in the world—­a clarion defiance to darkness and sin—­far too good a name for my poor jingle—­except, indeed, you call it a Cochin-china-cock-crow—­from out a very wheezy chest!”

“‘My strength is made perfect in weakness,’” said Ruth solemnly, heedless of the depreciation.  To her the verses were as full of meaning as if she had made them herself.

“I think I like the older reading better—­that is, without the My,” said Polwarth:  “‘Strength is made perfect in weakness.’  Somehow—­I can not explain the feeling—­to hear a grand aphorism, spoken in widest application, as a fact of more than humanity, of all creation, from the mouth of the human God, the living Wisdom, seems to bring me close to the very heart of the universe.  Strength—­strength itself—­all over—­is made perfect in weakness;—­a law of being, you see, Ruth! not a law of Christian growth only, but a law of growth, even all the growth leading up to the Christian, which growth is the highest kind of creation.  The Master’s own strength was thus perfected, and so must be that of His brothers and sisters.  Ah, what a strength must be his!—­how patient in endurance—­how gentle in exercise—­how mighty in devotion—­how fine in its issues,-perfected by such suffering!  Ah, my child, you suffer sorely sometimes—­I know it well! but shall we not let patience have her perfect work, that we may—­one day, Ruth, one day, my child—­be perfect and entire, wanting nothing?”

Led by the climax of his tone, Ruth slipped from her stool on her knees.  Polwarth kneeled beside her, and said: 

“O Father of life, we praise Thee that one day Thou wilt take Thy poor crooked creatures, and give them bodies like Christ’s, perfect as His, and full of Thy light.  Help us to grow faster—­as fast as Thou canst help us to grow.  Help us to keep our eyes on the opening of Thy hand, that we may know the manna when it comes.  O Lord, we rejoice that we are Thy making, though Thy handiwork is not very clear in our outer man as yet.  We bless Thee that we feel Thy hand making us.  What if it be in pain!  Evermore we hear the voice of the potter above the hum and grind of his wheel.  Father, Thou only knowest how we love Thee.  Fashion the clay to Thy beautiful will.  To the eyes of men we are vessels of dishonor, but we know Thou dost not despise us, for Thou hast made us, and Thou dwellest with us.  Thou hast made us love Thee, and hope in Thee, and in Thy love we will be brave and endure.  All in good time, O Lord.  Amen.”