I passed upon a blacksmith's shop
And heard the anvil sing
The chime each time the hammer struck
A melody would ring
There strewn upon the blackened floor
Around the anvil's base
The broken shards of hammer parts
The blacksmith had replaced
"And just how many anvils sir
Have you by now worn through?"
"I'd guess by all the hammer bits
It must be quite a few."
"I'll let you in," said he with grin,
"to secret free of doubt.
This anvil, still original,
Wears every hammer out."
With every blow the blacksmiths throw
the hammer crashing down,
sends cracks and quakes till hammer breaks
No flaws on anvil found
Just so the skeptics hammer down
Upon the Word of God
The anvil takes while hammers break
Their efforts all for naught
Relentless doubters carry on
Attempting one by one
To mar the anvil of God's Word
In turn each one's undone
This poem won second place for the December 2020 poetry contest