Jewel Most Rare 4

And my blazing, white-hot fire, ever hotter than before,
Engulfs my bleeding body, each oozing, poisoned pore.
Pained, my mortal frame kneels, bowing to the earth.
Heaven's angels reteach me how very much one soul is worth.

My golden heart, my Jewel Most Rare, now rests in my hands.
I knew not, nor know now, the whole of my God's plans.
But knowing not the entirety, I content myself with part.
I see purity returning to my once-darkened, good heart.

Now angel's hands so pure, two hands not my own,
Reach across, cradle my hands that have, the darkness, known.
Purity and darkness feeling they're meant to meet...
Two pure... two turning pure... their owners take a seat.

At fire's core, where turning-pure has fought since my first choice,
The other, knowing all the darkness, listens, then she gives voice
To a flowing narrative saga.  A tale to set me free.
Tis my story, from her perspective.  I begin at last to see.

I walked through this my fire, turned, and walked through again.
Will I ever find my good heart? I would think. And if so, when?
Much pain and much happiness has from my story come.
She shows me that pain endured well brings me to my sum.

Now rising to her feet, she pulls me up as well.
"Others need you and I to help them through their hell."
"But I am so very fallen," I say. "You have light I do not own.
You are pure and nearly perfect, and nigh to God's own throne."

"What am I but blood and bone, that now can hardly stand?"
Then she answers with words for which I have not planned.
"How many have walked through hell fire, not once but many times,
And still understand what it really means to be kind?"

"How many would shoulder stranger's load, bearing harshest chores,
Or take a friend's cancer, and live in hospital forevermore?
Can you not accept that your heart-jewel preciously endures
So many fires, because it is very nearly pure?"

Her words, well-chosen, desperately needed and wise,
Remind me why I wish free from Satan's lies.
Now one desire resurfaces, as ever it does.
I want always to bear in mind my war-poet's Because.

"This mortal journey," I say soft, "To which we have been called,
Oft tears me asunder.  I have so many falls.
But one thing gets me up each time.  One thing pulls me through.
It's the thought that I want always to be with you."

"God has many daughters, and each I feel is choice.
But choice is mine, too.  And to it I give voice.
I want you. I want us.  If such will ever be..."
"Yes," she responds.  "Let's walk the fire, you and me."

Adam Scott Campbell


http://adamspoems-bp.blogspot.com/2010/08/through-blazing-white-hot-fire-i-chance.html