Unvoiced the Godhead spoke the Word
And unflesh hands made man.
Time’s Creator, not bound by time,
More distant than the sky,
Who willed to be in place and time
Confined, who healed and spoke
With hands and voice of matter born,
Was one of us, though God.
Closer now than one’s own heart,
Time deep and cosmos wide,
Enfleshed in fallen hands and tongues,
He builds and calls the world.
I think I should offer an explanation, or perhaps an apology, for posting this, but I remember Faulkner’s mother’s advice to him: “Don’t explain; don’t excuse,” and instead warn that there may be more in the future.
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