The flame upon a candle sits,
its light against the darkness pits.
Its strength the slightest breeze will tax,
and press it low to melted wax.

Persistent flicker 'til the dawn,
when wax is spent and flame is gone.
In this nocturnal vigil kept,
a thousand fears from night are swept.

So are lives like candles lit,
each pushing back the dark a bit.
And when the day arrives at last,
the flame to glowing wick is passed.

Its soul upon thin thread of smoke,
drifts slowly up now free of yoke.
Until is found what has been sought,
and within God's hand is caught.