There burns a fire with sacred heat
White hot with holy flame
And all who dare pass through its blaze
Will not emerge the same

Some as bronze, and some as silver
Some as gold, and then with great skill
All are hammered by their sufferings
On the anvil of His will

I'm learning now to trust His touch
To crave the fire's embrace
For though my past with sin was etched
His mercies did erase!

Each time his purging cleanses deeper
I'm not sure that I'll survive
Yet the strength in growing weaker
Keeps my hungry soul alive!

-John Mohr