Cold! The body’s growing cold
inside alabaster walls
isolated from the world,
her house filled up with treasure.
Fingers ‘round fine gems are curled.
Silence rings in hallowed halls
haunted by the saints of old.
Cold! The body’s growing cold,
intent upon her purpose.
Self protection was her choice.
Shoulder of indifference raised,
she ignored the Master’s voice
in manner cool and callous.
Pride crept in, taking its hold.
Cold! The body’s growing cold;
stripped of her former glory,
she lies wrapped in filmy gown,
enticing other lovers.
Turning, she despised her crown—
exchanged her wondrous story
for a tale easier told.
Once a Holy Fire burned
deep within her pulsing breast;
caused enlightened eyes to see
the world as Jesus saw it.
Charged with ardent urgency
she embraced the weak, oppressed;
fanned the Flame for which they yearned.
Burn again, oh Fire, burn!
Blaze within her fainting heart!
Melt the scales that blind her eyes,
and her nakedness expose.
Rouse her quick, before she dies;
once again your zeal impart.
Oh, First Love, to her return.
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