Meditation XVIII
O God who reaches down through all the cracks
earth wears just like a broken teacup, fills
them flush with gold and covers them until
your pleasure makes them plain; who slowly packs
the pantheon of heaven in the black
dominion deep beneath the arid hills;
who makes eroded boulders break and spill
with brilliance, more glorious in their wrack;
who hovers over steaming thermal springs
and scoops out hollows in the rock, then sings
to hallow each and every void with light
profuse and permanently out of sight;
have mercy.
Help me see my every fault
prepared to hold your treasure like a vault.
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This poem was generated by the author’s human mind with zero AI / LLM involvement.
Beautiful.
Super cool. Love the imagery, and it also put me in mind of creation, when the Spirit of God hovers over the waters, and creation begins, and really has never stopped, with each new day.