The Blacksmith

He rises early as cockerel yields,
His rallying cry in blazing sky ,
over dewy fields.

And all of life is stirring,
and chatter with their song,
as honey bee in shrubbery,
is busy all day long.

A cup of water a morsel of bread,
while foul scurry, who not been fed,
in frenzied hurry, as their led.

He takes some wood to make a fire,
to fashion the instrument of His desire,
and stokes the embers still with heat,
and pumps the bellows with his feet.

And blackened coal now turns white,
His face now brightened by the light,
He wipes his eyes to clear his sight,
at last the fire is just right.

From smelting pot he pours the ore,
shooting sparks fall to floor,
into the mold it quickly sets,
from furrowed brow fall beads of sweat.

Then to fire He turns His gaze,
bellows the air and brings to blaze,
He grasps a hammer in his hand,
as the fire He quickly fans.

And blow by blow with might of arm,
falls the hammer gripped in palm,
and the fashioned iron of his intent,
is slowly shaped, teased, and bent.

With every blow His mark is sealed
the image of Himself revealed,
it bares His name the finished brand,
brought forth by His loving hand.

The Smithy's craft is nearly done,
as twilight falls at setting sun,
as far as the east is from the west,
of all of His work this is the best.