Looking O'Er This Written Page, Many Blurs And Blots Are Seen; Crooked Strokes, At Every Stage-- Oh, That It Again Were Clean, As At First I Found It, When I Defiled It With My Pen! Gladly Would I All Erase; But Along The Lines Of Blue You Could Still The Failure Trace In The Paper'S Darkened Hue; Though The Words Could Not Be Seen, You Could Trace Where They Had Been. I Will Try To Do My Best, Though My Ideal Be Not Gained; On The Master'S Scrip Shall Rest Eager Eyes, Till Is Attained Some Resemblance To His Hand; If No More I Can Command. Like My Life, This Written Sheet, So Unlike The Pattern Given; Crooked Strokes, I Oft Repeat; Oh, That From It Could Be Riven All The Blurs And Blots Of Sin; All The Self That's Found Within. I Can Not The Past Erase. Christ Shall Blot The Crooked Out, Leaving Not The Slightest Trace Of My Sin, The Lines About; And Will Give Me Grace To Write Pages Pleasing In His Sight. I Will Try To Do My Best, As He Gives Me Strength And Light, Leaving With Him All The Rest; He Will Keep Life'S Pages White; And The Copy Shall Be Shown Perfected, Before His Throne.