When the soul is plunged in the fire of divine love, like iron, it first
loses its blackness, and then growing to white heat it becomes like
unto the fire itself. And lastly, it grows liquid, and, losing its nature, is
transmuted into an utterly different quality of being. And as the difference
between iron that is cold and iron that is hot, so is the difference between
soul and soul, between the tepid soul and the soul made incandescent by
divine love.
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are words we dimly hear:
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.
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