The fire's hot where I am placed.
In love and painful, unearned grace.
The hammer, hard and steadfast, true.
That beats me out in lieu of you.
The anvil sure and steady bound.
To work where this saved sinner's found.
The file abrasive to my will.
The whetstone rough and painful still.
But oh, the blade that's wrought from you.
Matched to your spirit, word and truth.
A sword to conquer realms of sin.
A blade to parry doubts within.
An instrument of love and grace.
One set as flint to evils face.
You make me into what I'm not.
But only where the fire's hot.
Where hammers hard and anvils sure.
Do I know that I'm being made pure.
You make me into what I'm not.
But only where the fire's hot.