The Saints' Fierce Surrender

The saints, with souls like molten steel,
Chase the razor’s edge where virtues reel.
Good from evil, they carve with might,
Their hearts a forge, ablaze with light.

Yet freedom’s not their iron grip,
Nor chains of choice that bruise and rip.
It sparks when pride is flung to flame,
When self’s tight reins are torn, untamed.

They roar with blessings, sharp as swords,
Curse with thunder, wielding words.
But rising bold, they stumble still,
Their strength a shadow on God’s hill.

His justice rages, a crimson tide,
Swallows their wrath, their burning pride.
Anger chars to ash in His fierce blaze,
And from its embers, life’s new rays.

No more they clutch the scales of right,
Or wield their truth in mortal fight.
God’s breath consumes their judging fire,
Birthing grace from funeral pyre.

Through veins of dust, His spirit flows,
A river wild where mercy grows.
Saints, undone, now pulse with Him,
Their surrendered hearts a living hymn.