There is a fiery impulseat the heart of prayer,
not saying prayers,
but primal prayer
the self's radical
turning toward God
in Whose incendiary gaze
ego's dross is consumed.
The essence left
after the conflagration
wears only the garb of light,
a radiance that passes
from soul to soul.
Glimpsed, not taught,
it illuminates a dark world
with a searing love
that beckons, burns,
ignites the fiery impulse.
-Bonnie Thurston
I ran across this poem on the Monastic Interreligious Dialogue (MID) website. It seems to fit well with the theme of recent entries here, especially this one on answering the call and that one on religious language.
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