The gates of our hearts are destined to fall
With a thunderous, resounding crash!
Above the rubble, a trumpet will sound
With the cool, golden sweetness of brass.
The flames of our hearts flickered and died,
So we thought, to a pale, cool shadow and ash.
But the Savior will come, the flame will leap high!
And the coldness of this world shall pass.
Rae Beth "Margaret" Maye, Brooklyn, NY