I feel upon my heart
a sacred fire.
It consumes me;
I am its fuel.
Slowly, it turns a thing
of oil and wood
into light and warming heat.
I am the mystery of transformation.
I am now a beacon in the dark,
a torch in the hand of the Divine.
Look not at the black pitch
of my heart,
it is needed for the flames.
Consenting to burn,
I find meaning
in each of my wooden imperfections.
Now the anguish is upon me;
the darkness scatters at my touch.
I burn to nothing,
casting light on all around me:
I burn to illumine.
I may be only a rod of wood,
but what I reveal
is beyond compare.
