"We wince in fear and shrink back as the fire dances, but those who
enter the furnace in faith, they know the invisible dew of Grace and
how those flames of trial consume the stubble of the passions and leave
behind brilliance."
I'm on the road and don't have time for a proper blog post, but I wanted to share this very moving one from Katherine at Evlogia.
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The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
-East Coker
The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre—
To be redeemed from fire by fire.
Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.
-Little Gidding, T. S. Eliot
Yes. Thank you, Lissla!
He reads and thinks, How dire, how dire.
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