They shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks.
I bear them into conversations, my swords.
I hide them in my dark.
I launch them at the news, these spears.
Find them among me, God of Peace. Take them:
my bitterness, my defensiveness, my need to win.
Find the hidden swords, the secret spears I cling to.
Make them red hot in the furnace of your forgiveness.
Hold them in the tongs of your truth.
Beat them with the hammer of your love.
Take the hurt I mean to project, the defeat I wish others.
Free me of the swagger of hurtfulness.
Bend my righteous little swords into tools of life.
Let me stand before enemies with pure love,
prepared to break soil, to prune branches,
to do the hard work of growing peace.
For I will need stout tools to work this rough land well,
to bring fruits of justice out of this rocky earth,
to tend the muscular trees of mercy.