From Nothing

Black. Heart-stop, stomach-drop, yawning chasm, black.

Adrift at sea, hopes torn from drowning hands,

night-terror sweat and the cloying taste of panic.

There is a whispering though, as if from away, 

behind a curtain, high above the abyss

of foaming surf that swirls and gushes unbidden.

The reassuring hushed rustle of preparation, and communion.

From ages past, first to last, everlasting to everlasting, 

the Ancient of Days, more ancient than days,

clothes of thunder and eyes ablaze.

A wind is gently blowing now; a divine breath exhaled.

Then, a voice of deafening trumpet blast, 

the roar of many waters, stirs from the deep,

leaving fragments of silence in its wake,

commanding LIGHT! BE!

The darkness yields, without demur,

though He does not banish it; thus far and no further.

And a chorus of pure joy rings out resplendent, 

at the light darkness cannot overcome.

Where were you, oh man? Tell me!

But these things are too wonderful for me,

I cannot understand, my soul knows it full well.

Night falls, day breaks.

Again, the voice speaks, but softly

ushering in primordial dawn to meet the new horizon,

a suffusion in gold.

Chaos and water recede from His mighty hand,

ancient doors are shut, surging torrents harnessed, 

beautifully broken by a firm and tender grasp.

The firmament draped on pillars set as bones,

and beneath, a fledgling world, in delicate shroud is lain.

Night falls, day breaks.

Barren, the watery desert rolls with waves uninhibited,

across an orb that glistens in pristine emptiness.

The voice thunders, GATHER!

And a strong wind blows over the Earth, its waters subside,

the midst of the sea gives way to mountain’s rise.

Wild oceans trampled into place, hemmed in judiciously,

the Lord will provide, a wide dry place to cross, 

and a home fit for the children of man.

Night falls, day breaks.

Fresh mist-damp mud steams in divine light,

the circle of the Earth an empty vessel.

Soaring peaks bare—and lonely valleys,

corridors of rock echo, clean with absence.

The voice shakes the roots of the World with majestic rumble, YIELD!

Shoots push up from dormant soil,

rich, untamed growth ripples across the surface of Earth,

uncultivated; a gardener awaited.

Night falls, day breaks.

Yet there is no signal, for sign or season.

The lands and seas are proscribed,

but time itself knows no bounds,

it stumbles ungainly, searching for a fence on which to lean.

The voice like devouring flame springs forth,

and by the word of His mouth the heavens are filled 

with glorious beacons, bright lights, to show the way.

The moon is set in its place—ruler of night,

yielding to the passing of each month,

and the sun knows the time of its rising—ruler of day, 

summer and winter are set in motion.

The stars, hosts of heaven, He numbers and names,

for North and South;

fair princes of night span the sky, each a lesser light, 

made beautiful for a time, in its time.

Night falls, day breaks.

The gentle whoosh of fronds, split by crackling friendly twigs,

cannot disguise the ache of air and sea, 

for song and chatter, for rushing and splashing.

The voice swells in euphonious phrase, SWIM! FLY!

Doves burst into the expanse—and hawks, wrens, falcons and sparrows, 

a rhapsody in feather swirls out beyond.

The waters writhe—trout, molluscs, squid and orcas, 

a thousand creatures, to move and to multiply.

Night falls, day breaks.

The skies and seas teem with life, diverse and disparate.

But the land lacks yet, the free movement uniquely animal. 

The ground casts an envious glance,

though it is not forgotten and will be double blessed.

The voice reverberates in the wilderness and strikes the rocks, BRING FORTH!

The womb of the Earth is fruitful at last—she yearns no more.

Out of her joyful heart: come the beasts 

of the field and jungle and plain, 

in crowds, herds, packs, stampedes and flocks,

all according to their kinds.

A wonderous noise expands to the heavens.

Night falls, day breaks.

And so, there is much good—life abundant in number and form, 

nature’s power found clashing and resounding,

in self-unconscious dance.

The voice falls to a whisper as before—let us make man, 

a different flesh, for purpose made.

Male formed, then female—He created them,

glory of God with glory of man.

And for them, a garden, on a well-watered hill,

in the midst of creation. 

Trenches dug, stones cleared, 

trellis laid and choice vines planted,

two trees He set apart among them,

one for life and one forbidden.

Night falls, day breaks.

Seventh Holy day of rest,

the world complete; His work surveyed.

In perfect balance, very good,

a people chosen, God’s hand stayed.

Text: David Cade
Art: Joanne Yau