He called me his little stained glass window.
Said you needed light to truly see my beauty.
Said I was created from broken pieces of glass.
Said I was crafted, carefully placed to create a miraculous image.

He didn't tell me someday someone would come along with a light.
They would shine so brightly for the whole world to see my beauty.
But they would shine too brightly,
their light a flame.
It would burn my frame and melt my edges.
My body, the church, would be a pile of ash and melted glass.

He should have called me his little phoenix.
He should have told me of my magnificent feathers of gold and scarlet.
He should have warned the flame that burning me would do no good,
that from the ashes I would rise up again.