Incineration

Made from the dust

And to ashes returned,

All transpiring in between

Destined to be burned.

 

The glory of His presence

An all-consuming fire,

He burns away the dross

On a refining pyre.

 

All that is material

Drifting as a cloud

Leaves behind a pile of ash

Underneath death’s shroud.

 

And what becomes of all we’ve done,

Of wood, hay, and stubble?

Will there be anything to show,

For all our earthly trouble?

 

How can I stand before Him?

How could I be so bold?

Unless the blood and the fire

Refine me there to gold.