His is the bluebottle flower and His is the sea-down turtle. And I’m just a quiet letter in the whirling wheel of Creation.
O how the world is filled with the sermons of the Lord, taught through the human tongue of the prophets, His limitless transcending mortal bounds. None can know but what He permits, and He has permitted all that man can imagine. How the unbeliever’s heart pounds in the worship of the Lord, thus how unbelievable the denial. From the moment of the first arrow of reason airborne, man is in awe of the rolling wave of existence!
O Lord, I know that every worm that shall mine out of me crumbs and every mossy shower that shall entomb will answer Thy Way. Never leave me to the crowds for now.
By Thy leave I’m a servant humbled by knowledge, each bolt of Revelation lowering me until I dwell in Nothingness and nothing still.
By Thy leave I’m a servant with a book; may I earn it in my right hand. Will not the arrogant grieve, those who scoff at the barefooted water-carriers?
O Lord, man’s love for Thou is edifying, and all the rest is of the self. By Thy leave, may my path be built upon the former.
Yet Thou grant portions of near solace between us. O but if we looked beside: that's all to be found. Thou art the Most Gracious, the Dispenser of Grace. In the Daybreak and in the Mantled Hours, in Thy remembrance, my being (the littlest letter Thou willed to be) doth abide.
Photo by Christopher Thomas