In the beginning was
the song of love.
Alone in empty nothingness
and space
It sang itself through
vaulted halls above
Reached gently out to
touch the Father's face.
And all the tracklessness
where worlds would be
Cried 'Father' through the
aching void. Sound tore
The distant chasm, and eternity
Called back--'I love you Son--
sing Troubadour.'
His melody fell upward
into joy
And climbed its way
in spangled rhapsody.
Earthmaker's infant stars
adored his boy,
And blazed his name through
every galaxy.
'Love,' sang the Spirit Son
and mountains came.
More melody, and life
began to grow.
He sang of light, and darkness
fled in shame
Before a universe in
embryo.
Then on the naked ground
the Troubadour
Knelt down and firmly sang
a stronger chord.
He scooped the earth dust
in his hand
And worked the clay
till he had molded man.
They laid him down beneath
primeval trees
And waited there. They loved
him while he slept
And both rejoiced as he began
to breathe
A triumph etched in brutal
nakedness.
'I am a Man!' the sun-crowned
being sang.
He stood and brushed away the
clinging sand.
He knew from where his very
being sprang.
Wet clay still dripped from
off the Singer's hands.
Earthmaker viewed the sculptured
dignity
Of man, God-like and strident,
President
Of everything that was,
content to be
God's intimate and only earthen
friend.
The three embraced in that
primeval glen.
And then God walked away,
his Singer too.
Hate came--discord--they
never met again.
The new man aged and died
and dying grew
A race of doubtful, death-owned
sickly men.
And every child received the
planet's scar
And wept for love to come and
reign. And then
To heal hate-sickened life
both wide and far.
'We're naked!' cried the
new men in their shame.
(they really were)
A race of piteous things
who had no name.
They died absurdly whimpering
for life.
They probed their sin for
rationality.
Self murdered self in endless
hopeless strife
And holiness slept with
indecency.
All birth was but the prelude
unto death
And every cradle swung above
a grave.
The sun made weary trips from
east to west,
Time found no shore, and
culture screamed and raved.
The world, in peaceless orbits,
sped along
And waited for the Singer and
his song.
.......................................
The Father and his Troubadour
sat down
Upon the outer rim of space.
'And here,
My Singer,' said Earthmaker,
'is the crown
Of all my endless skies--the
green, brown sphere
Of all my hopes.' He reached
and took the round
New planet down, and held it
to his ear.
'They're crying, Troubadour,'
he said, 'They cry
So hopelessly.' He gave the
little ball
Unto his Son, who also held
it by
His ear. 'Year after weary
year they all
Keep crying. They seem born to
weep then die.
Our new man taught them crying
in the Fall.
'It is a peaceless globe.
Some are sincere
In desperate desire to see
her freed
Of her absurdity. But
war is here.
Men die in conflict, bathed
in blood and greed.'
Then with his nail he scraped
the atmosphere
And both of them beheld the
planet bleed.
Earthmaker set earth spinning
on its way
And said, 'Give me your vast
infinity
My son; I'll wrap it in a bit
of clay.
Then enter Terra microscop-
ically
to love the little souls who
weep away
Their lives' 'I will,' I said,
'set Terra free.'
And then I fell asleep and all
awareness fled.
I felt my very being shrinking
down.
My vastness ebbed away. In dwind-
ling dread,
All size decayed. The universe
around
Drew back. I woke upon a tiny
bed
Of straw in one of Terra's
smaller towns.
And now the great reduction
has begun:
Earthmaker and his Troubadour
are one.
And here's the new redeeming
melody--
The only song that can set
Terra free.
The Shrine of older days
must be laid by.
Mankind must see Earthmaker
left the sky,
And he is with us. They must
concede that
I am he. They must believe the
Song or die....
Calvin Miller's The Singer p.44-46, 108-110.
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