(Any blade can stab you
Cause damage, give pain,
But the one your trials makes you
Can withstand awful strain.)

The forge is a taste of Hell
Hot sparks, deep burn,
But that lurid cauldron's metal
Is stable, solid, stern.

When returned to water
Sputtering, acrid steam,
Quickly calmed down to murmur -
Then the blast of Hell again.

The anvil tests it further
Crushing, claxon ring,
Beaten into shaped surrender -
Deadly hot and sharpening.

When the trials all give way
Great pressure, bright fire,
A sword is made by close of day:
Deadly tool but purposed higher.

All unneeded torn away,
Charred and wrenched from mire,
Torturous pain tempers a blade,
Gives a resolve, which we admire.