The march to the fire, the stake against a
powder blue sky, the early hope of spring.
She walks, head held high, no fear for her
angels are here, have always been there.
The war is won now, the tide has turned,
and she knows soon she will sleep in His arms.
In the fields, the wildflowers bow in the wind,
and the world begins again, awakening from sleep.
In Domremy the children will be playing in lush
and verdant forests, be wild and free in youth.
Angels and saints came to her, and she took their hands,
and she gave that up forever; honor calls for blood.
And she looks to the sky, still a girl, but a darker heart,
but not hard, still a softness in her twilight life.
The fires are burning, and tears come, but she is
going home, and all this darkness will be lost in the light.
The smoke and flames, pain and choking, but the sun,
the sun has His face, and she sees him now, face to face.