The Furnace Poem by John William Inchbold

See how the fire rude silver purifies,
The sage refiner sitting watchful by,
And tempering heat intense, judiciously
With stream of cooler air, wherein there lies
Some rare completing power: at last he tries
If in the molten mass his face may lie
As clear as crystal that receives the sky.
Refined as silver pure, a bright surprise
Unto ourselves, shall we in that far stream
That bounds the throne of God, see clearest eyes
Through tribulation's furnace safely brought,
Beam bliss supernal. O to realize
Whilst here, what there in glorious life is wrought,
When chastened pure we breathe in paradise.