Last eve I paused beside the blacksmith's door, And heard the anvil ring the vesper chime; Then 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," said he, and then with twinkling eye, "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." —John Clifford, D.D.
Showing posts from May, 2010
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A Poem By John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) We search the world for truth. We cull The good, the true, the beautiful, From graven stone and written scroll, And all old flower fields of the soul; And, weary seekers of the best, We come back laden from our quest, To find that all the sages said Is in the Book our mothers read.