On Assignment Number Three

I really don't like rhyming.  And really don't like busting out a poem in fifteen minutes flat and turning it in for a grade.  But what are you going to do at midnight on a Tuesday?  Sleep is more important right now that being the next T.S. Eliot.

a silence that speaks.

The universe is as small to God
As a poem is to a poet.
Held in his hands and seen from above,
Jehovah alone can know it.

The intricate rhymes and delicate meter
Make sense to his Creator’s mind;
While creation sits ‘low, scratching its head,
Surrounded by a world to remind

Of his infinite glory [the grandeur of God]:
So much bigger than we can perceive.
Father Almighty, Creator of all;
These gifts that you’ve made, we receive.

His place in this world, though, is questioned by some:
Where dwells this Maker we seek?
Found outside our reason and outside our realms,
His absence, a silence that speaks.

Too big to be known, too grand to be shrunk
And to fit inside thoughts in our heads.
He created the world, like I’m typing these words,
Carefully weaving the threads.

All knowing and powerful, Lord of all life:
How can I see you on earth?
The better question, though, is how can I not
See the signs of your unbounded worth?

Proof of your love screams from all that I see
Each moment that I am awake:
The trees and the words and the people you’ve made
Overwhelm me with a joy-filled ache.

I thank you, my God, for creating the world
Though we’re failing and falling each day.
Keep making me new and open my eyes
To the beauty and grace you display.

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There's that.  There's that.