Poetry

A Form of God

November 7, 2010

Your small fingers grasp
no edge of sunset nor
the tornado which is but a breath
of the heaven’s spinning smile.

An angel speaks in thunder;
God speaks and mountains fall, then
he sings and creation starts.

No taming, no training the river;
no wave for you to guide.
The Lord God Almighty – He is –
and is not a passing thought
or a game played at your desire

In your own image you insist,
a form of God must keep
as all earth moves to mock you
till the day comes when you shall kneel
in knowledge that you are but a passing in
the Lord God Almighty – He is I AM –
and men are naught but dust, futile in their strength.

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