Oh, faithful hurt, the one that heals, that breaks and wounds the heart that feels, come once again and bid me die, tell not my soul a lovely lie.

Tell not my heart to heed itself, nor tell my mind to trust its doubts, but wound them gently with your help whose whisper drowns out all their shouts.

Oh, breaker of my weary bones set me aright despite my groans. Align my broken crooked will to your own heartbreaks, joys and thrills.

This earthen jar of molded clay contains within the Light of Day, but you must break it and remake it such that every single ray of glory bright, of dazzling white pours through those cracks into the night.

So crush me with your tender hand and burnish me with heat and sand that through my gaping breaks and cracks the light pours forth through all the gaps.

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