All around us the howling of a windstorm,
The cold of a snowstorm, thermals of a firestorm.
Not talking weather but trials beyond displeasure.
Storms’ outer afflictions and inner contradictions.
Is your furnace oven, white hot with burning heat?
Is this Refiner’s fire? “Please, no more,” you entreat.
“I can’t take any more! To this, I must resign?”
“Your dross I will consume. Your gold I will refine.”
The divine arsonist, His hot refiner’s fires
Purging and burning “self,” purifying desires.
Out of the charred ashes, emerging from fire’s blaze
A clean, purified self, joyously singing praise!