I paused last eve beside a blacksmith’s door,
And heard the anvil ring, the vesper’s chime,
And looking in I saw upon the floor
Old hammers, worn with beating years of time.
“How many anvils have you had?” said I
“To wear and batter all these hammers so?”
“Just one,” he answered. Then with twinkling eye:
“The anvil wears the hammers out, you know.”
And so, I thought, the anvils of God’s Word
For ages skeptic’s blows have beat upon,
But though the noise of falling blows was heard
The anvil is unchanged; the hammers gone.