Burn Holy Fire Poem by Patti Masterman

Burn holy fire, the age of words to incinerate;
Your beads sear the flesh, with the tiniest seed-pearl scars.
My heart's burning up, but there's seasons of pain abated
Though faces of saints, are melted and slightly marred.

Burn holy fire, what prophet could quench your fury;
Burn all the dross, till the ash is recalled by earth.
Never to ask, what purpose to which we endured it;
For dust to dust, is all we are told we're worth.