The hammer swings, the anvil rings
At breaking of the dawn’s first light.
Like hallowed bell or solemn knell
To sweep away the winter’s night.
The flame that shines in bright smith’s shrine
Has burned a thousand years or more,
Undimmed by woes or rage from those
Who bring on famine, plague, or war.
It ever burns for those who yearn
For healing, skill of hands, or art,
We turn to Her whose mercies blur
The pain that burdens every heart.
As gift to She who inspires me,
I offer now my humble song,
Its words of praise ring through my days,
And makes the bond between us strong.
If these words meet approval sweet
From her, I have achieved my aim;
I am no bard, but labor hard
That each verse sings her holy name.
All Their Voices 