Father in the searing, soul pain of immolation forgive me if I wince and grit my teeth, murmuring. It seems that there will be a point at which this becomes beyond bearable but joyous in the knowledge of its cleansing authority. This however, is the time of my regretful, spiritual infancy. Lord, I never realized how far I was separated from the destination of this questing. For this is about purity, holiness and moment when I may be found in standing acceptable to the King’s Guard in review. Is it because I have so little understanding of your Righteousness? Is that the seeming trillion, light year journey from me to you, in that I am so undistinguished, poisoned and impure that it is impossible for man to cross that crevasse that separates man from Maker?

I will sit here Lord and pray that at some point I am removed from this conforming flame, not to escape but because it has completed its work in my preparation. It consumes, devours, reforms, cleanses and threatens at even the resistant power of my grip upon everything Earthly. And when I let go, opening my desperate clutch upon life ideas melt into the flux of nonexistence, even the tarnished memories and glib moments of sensory input are reformed, deleting memory and choice. This is the pain of rebirth, shredded by raging wind of furious fire that burns in cauterization of human wound, healing as it passes, stripping all not treasured by God.

I am so simple, in my understanding and wanton measure. No grand quests left seeking mark or pleasure. In the dream I see service in camaraderie to the King. No medals born in victories cheer as heaven’s glory beckons near, a whisper with the force of trumpet’s port, not the sort of man’s making, but of plans measured in eon. Can you see me on that burnished hill, having never ascended but descended into the recalling of all that went astray, left with awe and linen to display? What day is such that we portend that every wound and illness mend, leaving scar not forgotten but freed from sin and smell of rotten. Sitting in the forging fires not the flames fueling pyres upon a mountain shame in passing but the rekindling of a Spirit shorn from the sheep and shepherds horn. To leave this World and Be Reborn.