The Cost of Perfection

O mortal soul, that hungers to be pure,
Whose trembling hands would shape the flawless clay,
Know this: the stars themselves must still endure
Their scars of fire to lend the night its ray.

Perfection’s throne stands high, but none ascend
Without the thorns that crown the pilgrim’s brow;
The closer one to Heaven’s gates would bend,
The more the dust of Earth will cling somehow.

For God alone holds balance without stain,
While man, in reaching, breaks what he would bless;
Yet in his striving, glory hides in pain—
Each flaw a mark of love, not of excess.

So seek not ends that angels dare not keep;
Through imperfection, souls are made complete.