1 With joy let each afflicted saint
This cheering truth behold,
That when he's try'd he shall not faint,
But shall come forth as gold.

2 This privilege, dear Lord, I claim,
Nor am I here too bold,
That from the trying, fiery flame,
I may come forth as gold.

3 What tho' the furnace burns on high,
Still to this truth I'll hold,
'Tis but design'd my soul to try—
I shall come forth as gold.

4 Herein his wisdom and his love
Will God to me unfold,
And from the furnace I shall prove,
He'll bring me forth as gold.

5 He'll kindly thus consume my dross,
So in his word I'm told,
Nor can I suffer real loss,
But shall come forth as gold.

6 Thus he'll conform me to his word,
And cast me in that mould;
And, through the goodness of my God,
I shall come forth as gold.

7 Thus will I sing his praises here,
Whose mercies are of old;
And when in glory I appear,
I shall come forth as gold.