Thrasher's Call

Be still, o tongue of mine, you wrathful spark, And quench your lashing flames, or drive them back, and quell their quickening blaze, their searing lack of grace. Let Heaven’s mercy light your dark and lead you out from searing tunnel-vision that only sees itself, and self-inflamed, cares not a lick for care nor for the name of Him who took your pain, and gave this mission: to cede yourself, to tend to others’ needs, to be no longer immolating fire, but gardener; to plant and baptize seeds that they might grow, and grow your heart’s desires to speak of love, and more, to love in deeds, beyond yourself, as Christlikeness requires.