Gold is made by fire
To glow and flare like flame
It’s glory, thus, is a bye of glaze
That shrugs a further blast.
The purest form of wealth
Is blurred in heaps of mud
That makes the wealth a mass of dirt
In need of fire To gulp.
My core is emerging fast
From mass and folds of flesh,
In the Furnace trough that’s made by God
To salve and purge me whole.
The Furnace scourge and pain
Is hard and biting, yet
‘Ti’s shaft and tar that blaze away
Surviving the purely me!
The Furnace is a purging pot
Refining carnal minds,
Transforming cruel and selfish being
Into a perfect Gold.
Peace Spring
