Like the leaves that carpet the autumn floor,
My sins have fallen before Your gaze--
Tangible proof of my death, piled in heaps--
Brown, orange, yellow--a blaze of imperfection.
Slowly, deliberately, You gather them together.
I turn from the sight, sickened by my guilt,
When I hear Your voice calling, calling--
A fire--blood-red, scorching--rises to the sky--
Your hands--scarred by the flames You gave,
Purposefully blotting out the record of my wrong--
Reach out to me from the smoke,
Welcoming me with Your embrace.