The Forge...

I am a block of ore,
Vast, untamed, unhewn,
Filled with impurities,
That I have let seep
And mingle with my being.
Potential lies within,
But the impurities,
They wear me down,
And dilute my essence,
So I struggle
I have to become pure,
And solid,
And be given a shape.
That I may fulfill my potential.
And sing
What I was meant to sing.
But how?
There is only one way.
The Forge...

The Forge calls....
But who will shape me?
Who will purify me?
I will
For I must
The only help I have
Is the guiding hand
Of a gentle master
The same master
Who created some pure
and helped others
become pure.

It begins...
I submit to the heat
And the impurities
They bubble to the surface
And those are removed easy.
But some remain,
And these
These are more stubborn.
Why did I let myself
Accept them?
The heat increases
and more bubble to the top
and are removed,
and my essence begins
to coalesce
But it's not enough.
No.
The heat needs to increase further.
That final speck of impurity
Shall require the most effort.
The heat is excruciating
But it must be borne
And finally
It is removed
And I am pure
But formless.

What shall I become?
I must decide now
Whilst I am still soft
I decide
To give myself to my master
And let Him decide
My decision is wise,
For I am shaped
Better than I could do myself
Sharper than sharp
Lighter than light.
I realise now
That whilst I thought I was
Doing the purifying
It could not have been me
And I could never have
Shaped myself.
I just thought I could
Cause I never saw
The hand of the master
Now
I am ready to sing.

I was a block of ore
Vast, untamed, unhewn
Now,
I sing what I was meant to sing

I sing the song of silence.