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O God, for whom galaxies
chime and ring — great moons
like pendula sweep back and forth
through molasses space
thick with emptiness;
formless and void
until You breathed and light
like a firefly in summer
blinked its way through the dark.
It grew, this little light of Thine,
into a beaming pulsar, it grew
into white that stood still
and spread, tremor ceasing.
You enfolded the world, wrapped
clay on its eyes and asked it
to see the light,
It blinked. Saw
Your magnificent beaming,
basked in Your rays for a time
until the clay fell off like scales
and the world saw good and evil —
went blind.

The light shines among men.


Sarah Burton holds an MA in Religion from Andrews University. She currently works as a freelance editor in Tallahassee, Florida where she lives with her husband, Kevin, and daughter, Adelia. Her poetry has appeared in Medical Literary Messenger, Mother’s Always Write, and Third Wednesday.

Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash


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