Burn my weary soul in the fires of adversity,

Lay my battered body on the anvil of despair,

Let the blacksmiths hammer rain down it's blows incessantly,

Let the ringing of its impact fill the very air,

Quench my hardened spirit in a bucket full of bitter tears,

Then plunge it once again into the scorching flames

Let the hammers do their work 'til they've beaten out all fears,

Burn and beat and quench 'til steel's all that remains,

And in this final state the forge fires will mean little,

And hammer blows and icy tears will trouble it no more,

For cold hard steel is the measure of its metal,

But the memory of its beatings will lay hidden at its core,

And this is when the hammer and the anvil and the blacksmith,

Should fear the tool they've fashioned with every vicious smack,

For what they took as ore and beat upon the anvil,

Is now hard enough and sharp enough to fight back