The Smith's flame burns brilliantly within me, refining my soul with His fire. Lovingly, He has handcrafted me. But seldom have I fit into the molds. Always I try to go my own path, seeking my own way. Always I struggle and fight against His hands. And never does He give up on me.
I am not good material to work with. There is better ore and coal and clay out there for Him to use in my place. But the Smith would never hear of it. He chose me specifically for my peculiar properties which are hidden to all but Him. Even I do not know of what stuff I am made of, though I often lie and convince myself that I do. Continually; ceaselessly; carefully he forms me with His own hands, smoothing out my rough areas, polishing my surface, and shaping me to His image.
It hurts to change who you are. It hurts to have the roughness smoothed away by His touch. But unless I am molded by Him, I am without worth. Not unless He stamps me with His seal do I become valuable. I am so marked even now. But the Maker's reputation is at stake. A craftsman is known by his work. So too is my God known through me.
Lord, let me be a pleasing testament to Who You are. Shape me into the shape most useful to You. Otherwise, I am as nothing.
