The deadly quiet oceans take their silent snuffle;
these titanic tarns like uncomfortable carpets furling,
over the sweaty planes of the unbalanced man –
pressing forth to cover all of his mountains and valleys.
His topsoil is trembling, it groans and quakes,
as his universe gets perfectly pulled into order
by almost every neuron fibre’s flame
mightily alight within His hard-bitten body.
The stony, strong legs, like cold and breathless planets,
elegantly cut their way across the sliced sheets of nothing,
to get his universe into balance and into order –
warmly wrenched to the draw of the glorified Sun.
The arms of the stardust-giant chant the strain.
Oh these pillars of grace trying to keep it all afloat.
His elbows bend to boast the Craftsman work.
His calloused hands are now his unorthodox feet.
Are we those essential hands? Those prominent feet?
Do we realise that “the LORD wilt bless the righteous;
with favour wilt He compass him as with a shield”?
I beg to stay within His house – the multitudes of His mercy!
Do not lay asleep between the shards of the rebellious and wicked;
the evil that falls by own counsel –
that which He smites into cold, hard nothing.
Oh, how “The LORD abhors the bloody and deceitful.”
But find rest; everything shall return to how it was breathed out at the start.