My embers have burned within.  I have seemed tepid, but I have not been.  In ways, perhaps I tried to be.  I cloistered the fire, but it burned.  Where once it burned for me, it now burns for Christ, and through Him it burns for you.  When it burned for me it demanded the fuel of a thousand forests, and this merely kept a single coal alive.  No warmth, no light came from it.  Turned outward, it burns within so hot it should reduce me to white ash, so bright it should blind the world.  White, it burns.  And red.  Green and blue.  Violet.  Tepidness and timidity are not what drew you, but flame of passion.  It burns for you once more, not as it did, but as it should have.  In it is forged safety.  Come home.

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