The mettle of our souls will,
And the Blacksmith of Time,
Strike against the anvil -
The great forge softens our design.
Again, we are pummeled,
Reshaped and re-enforced,
Each baptism in the fire,
Straightening our natural course.
The fire consuming the heavy stones –
Milking gold from black mountain bones.
But how the furnace torments the ore –
How it yields spilling more.
You may yet escape this life untested,
Unrefined and unscathed –
But you’re still the same old lump of rock at 60,
As you were when just a simple babe.
I’d rather face the fire –
My Lord Blacksmith punch away!
I am totally Your creation,
Form me in Your way.
Though the fires may change me,
In Your hand, I’ll not die, nor desire.
Though the light may blind me,
T’is Your eyes I require.
I feel my shape refine,
But risk not to claim,
That I know the final design.
That secret belongs to the Lord Blacksmith,
The forever Lord of Time.
