Firewords

O God, my words are cold:
The frosted frond of fern or feathery palm
Wrought on the whitened pane --
They are as near to fire as these my words,
Oh that they were as flames!" Thus did I cry,
And thus God answered me; "Thou shalt have words,
But at this cost, that thou must first be burnt --
Burnt by red embers from a secret fire,


Scorched by fierce hearts and withering winds that sweep.
Through all thy being, carrying thee afar
From old delights. Doth not the ardent fire,
Consume the mountains heart before the flow
Of fervent lava? Woulds thou easefully,
As from cool, pleasant fountains, flow in fire?
Say, can thy heart endure or can thy hands be strong?
In the day that I shall deal with thee?


First the iron must enter thine own soul,
And wound and brand it, scarring awful lives
Indelibly upon it, and a hand
Restless in tender terribleness
Must thoroughly purge it, fashioning its pain
To power that leaps in fire.
Not otherwise, and by no lighter touch,
Are fire-words wrought.
Amy Carmichael