The Blacksmith's Shop

In the shop of a blacksmith, there are three types of tools. There are tools on the junk pile:
    outdated,
      broken,
        dull,
          rusty.
They sit in the cobwebbed corner, useless to their master, oblivious to their calling.

There are tools on the anvil:
    melted down,
      molten hot,
        moldable,
          changeable.
They lie on the anvil, being shaped by their master, accepting their calling.

There are tools of usefulness:
    sharpened,
      primed,
        defined,
          mobile.
They lie ready in the blacksmith's tool chest, available to their master, fulfilling their calling.

Some people lie useless:
    lives broken,
      talents wasting,
        fires quenched,
          dreams dashed.
They are tossed in with the scrap iron, in desperate need of repair, with no notion of purpose.

Others lie on the anvil:
    hearts open,
      hungry to change,
        wounds healing,
          visions clearing.
They welcome the painful pounding of the blacksmith's hammer, longing to be rebuilt, begging to be called.

Others lie in their Master's hands:
    well tuned,
      uncompromising,
        polished,
          productive.
They respond to their Masters' forearm, demanding nothing, surrendering all.

We are all somewhere in the blacksmith's shop.

Poem by Max Lucado, in his book called, On The Anvil