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The Straight Nail and the Bent Nails

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In an old blacksmith's weathered place,

Four nails lay still with quiet grace.

Upon a wooden plank they stayed,

 As time and silence gently played.

Three were bent with rusted pride,

 Mocking one they stood beside.

The fourth was straight, both firm and bright,

 Prepared to serve with all its might.

They laughed and said, "Why strive each day?

Just rest with us and drift away.

You work so hard for little gain,

While we are free from toil and pain."

 At last the carpenter drew near,

His practiced hands both firm and clear.

He passed the crooked nails aside,

For they had lost their strength and pride.

The straight nail, shining, caught his eye;

He chose it without asking why.

 Into the pillar, deep and true,

Its faithful heart its purpose knew.

The hammer fell with every blow,

 Each strike brought pain the nail would know.

The bent nails laughed from where they lay,

Believing they had won the day.

But when the house stood tall and strong,

 The straight nail knew where it belonged.

 Hidden within the steadfast frame,

Its sacrifice became its fame.

The bent nails, left in rust and dust,

 Slowly faded into rust.

Forgotten by the passing years,

They vanished with their idle cheers.

 For strength is proved through trials borne,

 Not by the ease of a careless morn.

The ones who stand through pain and test ,

Become the pillars of the best.

 So when the world may laugh at you For doing what is right and true,

Remember this: though trials prevail,

A faithful heart becomes the nail.

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