Habit is the hand that shapes the heart by Dmitri Shostakovich

Habit is the hand that shapes the heart.A soul becomes the soldier of its faith.Peace prevails through courage and by art.Pride is vanity, the preacher saith.Yet love is sky to mountains and to seas.Evil and good lie blissful in its arms.All may find that joy with equal ease,Sunlight radiant above life's storms.The character is written on the faceEven as the soul receives its grace,Restored to innocence and on its knees.