Smeagol is Free!
A hermitudinal view of...stuff...


3.15.2008  

Lyrical

A shapeless piece of steel, that's all I claim to be
This hammer pounds to give me form, this flame, it melts my dreams
I glow with fire and fury, as I'm twisted like a vine
My final shape, my final form I'm sure I'm bound to find

So dream a little, dream for me in hopes that I'll remain
And cry a little, cry for me so I can bear the flames
And hurt a little, hurt for me my future is untold
But my dreams are not the issue here, for they, the hammer holds

And the water, it cools me gray, and the hurt's subdued somehow
I have my shape, this sharpened point, what is my purpose now?
And the question still remains, what am I to be?
Perhaps some perfect piece of art displayed for all to see

So dream a little, dream for me in hopes that I'll remain
And cry a little, cry for me so I can bear the flames
And hurt a little, hurt for me my future is untold
But my dreams are not the issue here, for they, the hammer holds

The hammer pounds again, but flames I do not feel
This force that drives me, helplessly, through flesh, and wood reveals
A burn that burns much deeper, it's more than I can stand
The reason for my life was to take the life of a guiltless man

So dream a little, dream for me in hopes that I'll remain
And cry a little, cry for me so I can bear the pain
And hurt a little, hurt for me, my future is so bold
But my dreams are not the issue here, for they, the hammer holds

This task before me may seem unclear
But it, my maker holds


Bebo Norman's The Hammer Holds still makes me pause. Often, it makes me think. Upon occasion, it makes me cry.

These words reveal something I often would rather not see: my own dreams, not just slipping away, but melted down to nothingness. They also remind me of what I've begun to see: my shape, my form, the fabrics and the folds of my life. Mostly, though, they pull a veil up over what I cannot see: my future, that which will happen to me, the very purpose for which my shapes and forms have been given.

In the working of steel, the end product is strong, often shiny and smooth. What it looks like in process, however, is an entirely different matter. Heating and cooling, pounding and twisting, a progressive cycle with an ugly piece that often bears little more than a vague resemblance to the beautiful strength that results. That beauty may be given artificially, but the strength cannot.

So it is with us.

I often cry out at the merciful fury of God's gracious hand, only to be silenced yet again by His cooling of my overzealous passion. All the while, though, I cannot help but wonder, what task is before me? I suppose it's best that the same hand that holds me and forms me is the same one that wields me...

...no matter what that looks like.

posted by Bolo | 2:33 AM
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