I feel upon my heart a sacred fire. It consumes me; I am its fuel. Slowly, it turns a thing of oil and wood into light and warming heat. I am the mystery of transformation. I am now a beacon in the dark, a torch in the hand of the Divine. Look not at the black pitch of my heart, it is needed for the flames. Consenting to burn, I find meaning in each of my wooden imperfections. Now the anguish is upon me; the darkness scatters at my touch. I burn to nothing, casting light on all around me: I burn to illumine. I may be only a rod of wood, but what I reveal is beyond compare.