Creation is a miracle: there was a time when what is now, wasn't. It didn't exist, and now it does. How?
There was, could only be, a word
Spoken by one voice never heard before. Heard now
by unborn angels, coiled
around the circle of uncalculated time,
At this first word the angels stirred
Only in dim prediction, waiting still
For yet another universe to pass
In silence. Then at last
An answer came. A second word,
A younger voice, and all at once the third.
This time the angels rose, opened their huge and steady eyes,
And, breathing in the ocean of the dark,
Spread blinding wings and slowly danced and sang
Creation's overture. Beneath their feet
worlds shuddered and were born. Night
drew back and thickened with alarm to see
the curious insistent growth. Of infancy.
And was it love that drove it?
What could move
As terrible a creature as the world is,
As tender and immense,
As full of horror as of love
As this our living world is,
As this our fragile single place,
Our only home? Was love enough to make it,
Turn it, spin it, take it
To heights of knowledge and
Of consciousness, so strong, so rich, so clever
That here we are
The creature's creature humankind
Sleek of limb and sharp of mind
Smarter by far
Than all the rest
Undoubtedly creation's best achievement
But sick with a fever.
Can love ever
finish what love began?
Can it dance the angels dance and sing their song?