Blacksmith’s Shop
George Bowers
October, 2012
I went down to the blacksmith’s shop, to watch him at his work,
And saw him beat and pound, like someone half berserk.
But he knew just what to do, to make what was in his mind,
His skills and brains and brawn, were fashioning his design.
He heated it in the fire, burning hot and bright,
The iron approached its melting point, glowing red and white.
Just then he pulled it out, and started to pound it flat,
As I noticed perspiration, dripping from his hat.
He worked and worked and worked, shaping something fine,
To match the perfect image, laid out in his mind.
I’m sure the metal thought, “This hurts so very much,
Is all this pounding necessary, causing pain and such?
Just when I’m cooling down, and having some relief,
He sticks me back into the fire, hotter than all belief!
Then more ceaseless pounding, shaping me all day,
There surely must be something, of a much less painful way.”
But as the day wore on, despite my anxious urge,
A beautiful design, began to there emerge.
Every angle perfect, and tempered exactly right,
Then I saw the purpose, of what seemed to be a fight.
The blacksmith knew his iron, and protected it from harm,
And patiently he formed it, with his own hand and arm.
Next time you’re in the fire, and it doesn’t seem to end,
Remember Who is watching you, on Him you can depend.
He’s promised not to give us, more than we can stand,
He’s shaping us and forming us, according to His plan.