I cannot begin to count the number of times I felt the blows of the blacksmith's hammer as He has tried to shape this twisted piece of iron into a useful tool of service. Each time the steel grows cold I am thrust back into the furnace of affliction as the hot coals purge the impurities and dross from the metal of a man I am becoming.
How foolish to resist the blacksmith's hand - to war against the purpose the master craftsman has designed. Each edge is sharpened by the hammer's blows and every imperfection is tried time and again in the fire.
I am left with a choice: to remain brittle and unpliable forcing the blacksmith to cast me aside in a pile of scrap iron; or to allow Him to mold me and shape me into a purposeful instrument, a sharpened sword, or plow. Only the blacksmith knows what this shapeless piece of iron is destined to become.
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