The Forge

What is most precious is hardest to regain
Like trying to quickly outwalk the rain
To the farthest sunlit hills of rose
Where the blooming constellation grows.

The greatest beauty conceals its thorns
And devils learn to hide their horns
But those held lowest in the world's esteem
Are the last to die and the first to dream.

What is lost in the unjust trial by fire
Is slowest to unfold as the soul climbs higher
Past the prison bars that held it fast
Sailing toward heaven with a golden mast.

The bravest warrior eventually must fall
And the fairest maiden uncover her shawl
But the truest home our hearts defend
Casts no shadow and beholds no end.

Glen Woodard
May 1992