I have lifted my eyes to You,
to see what You are
and know what You have done.
I have seen You in the sky,
but that is not Your dwelling place.
I have seen You in the dust,
but that is only a trace of Your presence.
I have known You not in acts,
not in words
and not in miracles,
I have seen You in hearts
and felt You in embraces
and known You in between moments.
Like a timid, but tasteful artist,
You did not emblazon Your creation
with Your name.
Your signature exists in the
smallest pieces of Your work,
hidden to those who do not seek You.
Your name itself is Love,
but more particularly,
it is Mercy,
it is Patience,
and Long Suffering.
It is slow to anger,
yet full of fiery passion.
You did not make a safe thing.
It is raw,
visceral and base.
Sharp, jagged edges,
frayed seams
and seemingly endlessly faulted,
until the light strikes it just right
and those faults become facets
of a master-cut gemstone,
burning from within
with living light.
Can the clay pot
ever truly know the potter?
I suppose in me You made
a higher thing.
Silent architect,
hidden life,
the consciousness before the singularity.
Somehow,
I have known You.
Who You are.
HG – 2016
