Refiner's Fire

Knotted Pine
My life is like a knotted pine, Oh Lord.
Why is my wood so gnarled, twisted ‘round
in knobbed knots which neither axe nor sword
can cut, with heavy swing or fervent pound?
 
I hack and hack and yet no progress make
except for little dents and shallow cuts.
My heart is grieved, for so much lies at stake
if He my wood rejects, my soul rebuffs.
 
“My child,” says He, “dry up your tears and sobs.
Your wood will heap so nicely on the pyre
since here’s my secret for the knots and knobs:
the bigger knots need only bigger fire.”