Sparks after Midnight

Long past midnight the sinewed arms of the blacksmiths trade,
Toiled at the raging heat of the outdoor forge.
Sparks flew like lightning bugs flung up and dancing with the moon,
Then nothing more than blackened embers drifting slowly down.

WIth only the lights of the red fire below and the white brilliance of heaven above,
The ugly clang and clash of this creators work disturbed the early morn.

As the sky above faded towards a cold and early springs dawn,
The fullness of time had come to temper the Masters sword.
Plunging its length into His own love filled breast,
He cried in his death "IT IS DONE!"

And the sword of the Lord, the power of God and the life of the Smith,
Fused together in blood became in itself a Name that in death spoke life.

Judge what is right, what is true, what is good;
As the crowds always do that never watched the blacksmith work,
That never sat through an angry dawn and heard the battle won!
"In the beginning was the word.. and the word put on flesh and dwelt among us."