God’s world, to me,
Is sometimes better than His word.
A heretic you say?
Then show me how a row of text,
Can echo grace like broad blue sky,
Will twelve-point type,
Trace mercy’s path as deftly as the stars?
Writer as I am, I must confess,
Words crumble with the burden,
Of my need,
To touch and taste and gasp,
Cold terms of goodness sometimes leave me chilled,
From the thought they should reveal.
Can breathe His mercy,
Sharp, like storm air fresh upon my face.
While all the black that stretches twixt the stars
Hints at the depth,
I keen to taste.
Words are bright… and brittle,
Sculpted ice that shimmers yet is frail,
Beneath the ray of light
The speechless thought,
The nameless height and width and depth.,