The Goldsmith Poem by Raymond Farrell

In the manner of the ancient East
A goldsmith sat beside his charcoal fire
In the red glow was a curved roof tile
And over it, another served as a lid
The gold was imbedded in a mixture
Of salt, tamarind fruit, and burnt brick dust
After this mixture has done its work
The fire begins to take away the dross
Steadily the goldsmith works
Once the crucible is on fire
He never leaves his post
At one point, he removes the gold
With a pair of iron tongs
After letting it cool
He rubs it between his fingers
Closely, he examines the nugget
Is it pure enough?
If not, it is again imbedded in the mixture
And put back into the crucible
This time he blows the fire hotter
Until it has increased two fold
In the beginning, such intense heat
Would have ruined the gold
But now, what would have destroyed it
Serves to purify it further
And on, and on, it goes
Meticulously, the goldsmith proceeds
Step by step, towards his goal
And when he sees his face
Reflected in the liquid gold
He knows, the gold at last is pure
And I know the Master
Has been at work in me
More trials, more fire added constantly
Until at last in me
The dross will all be gone
And His reflection He will see