The broken sword has been reforged—a thing of beauty, found quite rare.
The Master’s hand and will accord; endow a change beyond compare.
No sharper blade on earth is found, than one made right by His own hand.
Though chosen, many can't account for time spent here, within this land.
Steel is folded into steel, two hundred times and maybe more.
One for every tear that’s shed; aye, even one for every score.
High carbon fuses into low; strength itself is tempered to
Stand resilient—nay, unbreakable—a mighty work to try to do.
Will a smith make new from what is old? A work of art will he complete?
Yet that He’s done and even more, from Broadsword laid down at His feet.
And when at last the soul is quenched, that gentle curve will show His pride;
He made a thing of honor still, from what the world had cast aside.
Then He makes it so it shines, flashing white with midday sun.
And even in the dim starlight, the world will see what He has done.
Twice born, twice tested, thrice fired and quenched.
For once it was not found wanting, for it was good to Him.
