Our task is to offer ourselves up to God like a clean, smooth canvas and not bother ourselves about what God may choose to paint on it, but at every moment, feel only the stroke of his brush.  It is the same with a piece of stone.  Each blow from the chisel of the sculptor makes it feel – if it could feel – as if it were being destroyed.  As blow after blow rains down on it, the stone knows nothing about how the sculptor is shaping it.  All it feels is a chisel hacking away at it, savaging and mutilating it.

He shatters my little world
And lets me be poor before Him.
He takes from me all my plans
And gives me more than I can hope or ask for.

Let me no more
My comfort draw
From my frail hold of thee.

Rather in this
Rejoice with awe
Thy mighty grasp of me.

(all anonymous)