Last eve I paused before a blacksmith’s door
and heard the anvil ring the vesper chime.
And looking in, I saw old hammers on the floor,
Worn by the beating years of time.

“How many anvils have you had,” said I,
“To wear and batter all these hammers so?”
“Just one,” said he, then with a twinkle in his eyes,
“The anvil wears the hammers out you know.”

And so I thought, the anvil of God’s word,
For ages skeptic blows have beat upon.
Yet though the noise of falling blows was heard
The anvil is unharmed—the hammers gone!

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