Morris keeps returning to the same phrase, "the tip of the arrow," and each time it points somewhere darker. At first it's simply a weapon's sharpest part, something an enemy would fear. Then the focus shifts to what the tip does: it draws blood and makes a victim weep. The speaker seems to be looking at violence up close, without flinching.
The third and fourth stanzas turn to contrast. The arrow's design could be "so pure," yet it is "misused by havoc." It is made "with divine love" and also "with alarming hate." Those pairings suggest that the same object, or perhaps the same human skill, can serve very different ends.
The last stanza cuts everything short: "the archer." After all the build-up, the blame lands on a person, not the weapon. The speaker seems unsettled and quietly accusing. The mood is cold and tense, and the abrupt ending leaves the reader with an uncomfortable question about responsibility.