THE
ANVIL By
Laurence Binyon Burned
from the ore's rejected dross, The iron whitens in the heat. With plangent
strokes of pain and loss The hammers on the iron beat. Searched by the
fire, through death and dole We feel the iron in our soul.
O
dreadful Forge! if torn and bruised The heart, more urgent comes our cry Not
be spared but to be used, Brain, sinew, and spirit, before we die. Beat
out the iron, edge it keen, And shape us to the end we mean! Editor: 1
Corinthians 9:26 I therefore so run, not as uncertainly; so fight I, not as one
that beateth the air: 27 But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection:
lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway. 2
Corinthians 12:9 And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my
strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory
in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. -
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