Before to God Isaiah can aspire -
The Angel's tong selects a flaming coal -
Astringent fire - the funereal pyre
For all the grosser substance of his soul.
A good man to be sure - but man is dross
In such a place. A mortal soul is naught
But fair ore trapped beneath a foul crust
Of sin - and yet the great refiner sought
The silver to be wrought.
The altar laid
Isaiah, with no lamb to lay thereon
Lay trembling neath the sacrificial blade
His blood to mingle with the Sacred Son -
The fire burns the mantle of the years -
A mere man dies, a Godly man appears.
(Verses in Isaiah, here)
This poem I originally wrote about two years ago, sort of as a last farewell to the Mormon faith of my youth. I don't believe in the LDS church anymore, but I can respect it, deeply. As I expressed it to a friend of Amanda's: the Mormon church teaches you to be a hero, because it demands that you live for something that you would die for. Of course, most of us aren't meant to be heroes, and there is the question of whether you are dying for the right things. But to live a life without something you would die for is to never really live...
(Image: "The End" by Gabriela Camerotti)