God’s Crucible, to burn up joy’s restraints—
Hot Forge, where wayward wills can be reformed
As frames for Flaming Artist’s holy paints
On living canvases His brush has warmed.
How soon we start to doubt the Final Judge,
When His all-knowing choices curb our own!
How slow we trust, how soon we hold a grudge,
When painful seeds of faith His hand has sown.
Again, we’re microcosms of His care….
Allowed to each are crises that refine
By sov’reign heat, which hardly can compare
With what will consummate His plan divine.
The demon hosts must face their deadly due:
Consuming Fire will melt all realms untrue.