The Earth Turns South/The Smithy of God
THE SMITHY OF GOD
I.(A bold, masculine chant.)I am Newark, forger of men,Forger of men, forger of men—Here at a smithy God wrought, and flungEarthward, down to this rolling shore,God's mighty hammer I have swung,With crushing blows that thunder and roar,And delicate taps, whose echoes have rungSoftly to heaven and back again;Here I labor, forging men.Out of my smithy's smoldering hole,As I forge a body and mold a soul,The jangling clangors ripplewise roll.
(The voice suggests the noises of the city.)Clang, as a hundred thousand feetTap-tap-tap down the morning street,And into the mills and factories pour,Like a narrowed river's breathing roar.
Clang, as two thousand whistles screamTheir seven-in-the-morning's burst of steam, Brass-throated sirens, calling folkTo the perilous breakers of din and smoke.
Clang, as ten thousand vast machines.Pound and pound, in their pulsed routines,Throbbing and stunning, with deafening beat,The tiny humans lost at their feet.
Clang, and the whistle and whirr of trains,Rattle of ships unleashed of their chains,Fire-gongs, horse-trucks' jolts and jars,Traffic-calls, milk-carts, droning cars. . . .
(A softer strain.)Clang, and a softer shiver of noiseAs school-bells summon the girls and boys;And a mellower tone, as the churches ringA people's reverent worshiping.
(Still more softly and drowsily, the last line whispered.)Clang, and clang, and clang, and clang,Till a hundred thousand tired feet.Drag-drag-drag down the evening street,And gleaming the myriad street-lights hang; The far night-noises dwindle and hush,The city quiets its homing rush;The stars glow forth with a silent sweep,As hammer and hammered drowse asleep . . .Softly I sing to heaven again,I am Newark, forger of men,Forger of men, forger of men.
II.(Antichorus, with restrained bitterness, and notes
of wailing and sorrow.)You are Newark, forger of men,Forger of men, forger of men. . . .You take God's children, and forge a raceUnhuman, exhibiting hardly a traceOf Him and His loveliness in their face. . . .Counterfeiting His gold with brass,Blanching the roses, scorching the grass,Filling with hatred and greed the whole,—Shriveling the body, withering the soul.
of wailing and sorrow.)You are Newark, forger of men,Forger of men, forger of men. . . .You take God's children, and forge a raceUnhuman, exhibiting hardly a traceOf Him and His loveliness in their face. . . .Counterfeiting His gold with brass,Blanching the roses, scorching the grass,Filling with hatred and greed the whole,—Shriveling the body, withering the soul.
What have you done with the lift of youth,As they bend in the mill, and bend in the mill?Where have you hidden beauty and truth,As they bend in the mill? Where is the spirit seeking the sky,As they stumble and fall, stumble and fall?What is life, if the spirit die,As they stumble and fall?
(With bitter resignation.)Clang, and the strokes of your hammer grindBody and spirit, courage and mind;Smith of the devil, well may you beProud of your ghastly forgery.Dare you to speak to heaven again,Newark, Newark, forger of men,Forger of men, forger of men?
III.(Beginning quietly, gathering certainty.)I am Newark, forger of men,Forger of men, forger of men.Well I know that the metal must glowWith a scorching, searing heat;Well I know that blood must flow,And floods of sweat, and rivers of woe;That underneath the beatOf the hammer, the metal will writhe and toss;That there will be much and much of loss That has to be sacrificed,Before I can forge body and soulThat can stand erect and perfect and wholeIn the sight of Christ.
(Sadly and somberly.)My hammer is numb to sorrows and aches,My hammer is blind to the ruin it makes,My hammer is deaf to shriek and cryThat ring till they startle water and sky.
And sometimes with me the vision dimsAt the sight of bent backs and writhing limbs;And sometimes I blindly err, and mistakeThe perfect glory I must make.
(Rising to a song of exultant triumph.)But still I labor and bend and toil,Shaping anew the stuff I spoil;And out of the smothering din and grimeI forge a city for all time:A city beautiful and clean,With wide sweet avenues of green,With gracious homes and houses of trade,Where souls as well as things are made. I forge a people fit to dwellUnscathed in the hottest heart of hell,And fit to shine, erect and straight,When we shall see His kingdom comeOn earth, over all of Christendom,—And I stand up, shining and great,Lord of an unforeseen estate.Then I will cry, and clearly then,I am Newark, forger of men.