Like sheaves of wheat up-gathered are we all
By Love, who takes us to his threshing floor
Where we are sifted and our husks down fall,
While what is left is ground up more and more
To perfect whiteness, flour for the fire –
The sacred fire that bakes the sacred bread
For God’s high feast of purified desire,
Upon which every soul has sometime fed.
But there are those who wish to love in part,
To have the peace and pleasure, not the pain;
Yet if they let their fear consume the heart,
They’ll never fully witness Love’s refrain –
They’ll laugh, but never fully all their years,
They’ll weep, but never weep with all their tears.
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