He asked what I was angry about.
I guess he saw the heat flickering in my eyes.
I was trying to speak a healing word, but every time I opened my mouth a tongue of fire leaped out.
Hot coals decades old, under fallen growth, smolder unseen.
But now a searing whip broke out of me,
A fire fed by the latest story of another flame-thrower cutting down the plantings of the Lord
to make room for a more controllable land.
There is a fire lit by the Lord on the altar of the tree where he hung.
And there is a strange fire lit by men who make offerings with lives burned down like forests.
These flame-throwers, these wizards, masquerading as shepherds, they put crosses at the entrances to their shrines.
They burn trees once planted by streams of living water.
But the Lord sees.
There is fire in his eyes— a zeal for his Father’s trees.
There is a fire that doesn’t reduce trees to a pile of ash.
And there is a strange fire,
A fire that makes fuel from God’s plantings.
A fuel for towers and powers to have a flatter surface on which to build their empires.
There is a living fire burning in me. My Lord has breathed on my ashes.
I was a smoldering flame, but now I am a burning bush.