The crash of the hammer,
The blow of the torch,
Each passing moment of injury,
Each violent act of fury,
Increases the glimmer of gold,
As a beautiful shape unfolds.
At first the lump seems to cry,
"For what to blame am I?
What torture must I withstand
From this heartless, barbaric man?"
One onlooker shows signs of sympathy,
His sighs express his true empathy,
For that lump, so unprotected,
From the wrath that man has projected.
But I look on with envy,
So mild that pain seems to me,
How simple to be a gold lump,
A few blows from this torch, a few bumps.
After a few, admittedly painful, hours,
Each stain has been completely devoured,
An eye-catching, gorgeous formation,
A masterpiece of aesthetic consummation.
Oh, if it were only that effortless,
For a person to reach his very best,
To become absolutely perfect,
No blemish, no mar, and no defect.
Nevertheless, when all has been told,
Where is the meaning in beautiful gold?
But a neshoma so pure and refined,
Could never be simply mined.
Just think of the shine and glisten,
Of a Jew who knows how to listen,
To care and share, to teach and learn,
That's radiance that has been earned.
To you, Hashem, I ask,
Though I have not completed my task,
Please be patient with my lumpy soul,
I hope to glisten and shine when I'm old.