Listen now
to the dull roar
of deep time
in which you,
little one,
are sealed.

Turn your ear
to the sound of the ages,
cascading over you,
trundling past you,

leveling mountains
softening ridges
tucking kings
and kingdoms
in their graves.

God’s work-
who can fathom?

An aeon dances
past the Maker’s face,
a single note
in the divine symphony
in which a billion lifetimes
make barely a bar.

And over all
and in all
the Maker smiles,
and keeps singing.

And you,
little one-

Can you fathom?
Do you know?
Can you understand?
Will your tongue instruct?

Silence is the beginning
of your wisdom, little one,
you over whom the ages pass
without giving a single thought,
you whose work the years even now
reduce to rubble,
burn to ash.

Does this comfort you,
little one?

It should.

Listen now,
turn your ear again
to deep time,
know your futility
and be nourished,
let your limits make you wise.

Close your mouth,
shut it fast,
hold your tongue
before your Maker,
before the One whose voice bids the ages,
whose word commands the years,
whose song rouses eternities to dance.

Yes–hear him and be wise
He–the Lord of deep time.

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