I am but a rude utensil, One of many hammered tools Graded by our dust and scissel, Offcast from the grinding spool. Let the Light, the hand that wields me, Use us as it measures fit, Take us up and strike us freely; To this end we all commit. One day when I'm worn past mending, If my service is complete, May my cinders, on their sending, Bless the earth for later feet. If these ashes prove enduring, Clean enough after it all, Let their purpose be ensuring Guard and solace where they fall.