To burn but not to be consumed
would take a miracle;
or keep the dark at bay, entombed,
the lantern always full;

not to burn out or fade away,
but steady, still, and bright,
to hold unhurt the twisting flame
and not give way to night:

How could it be?  No human flesh
could bear the angry flame.
These mortal limbs, no burning bush,
cry out for mercy's rain.

Pour out, O heaven: Pour it out;
this conflagration still.
Pour rivers down into this drought;
these aching branches fill.

Drown me in mercy; let it run 
from reaching hands to roots,
then let me draw it up again,
alive with growing shoots.

Soften the hardness of my heart,
long purified in flame.
Wear down this stone to flesh, O God,
under the touch of rain.

Fire from loppings By Pavel Ševela, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1988522