This dark-inked ocean, without tide or shore,
is yet to know the flow of His feathered quill.
Your Spirit broods and tender wings implore
from formless void a world, with an author’s skill.
Now here stands our author in Jordan’s force;
with quivering hand the Voice drenches the Word.
The waters this time shall endorse his course,
as heavens open and God’s love-song is heard.
But this stone font, a drop of ocean’s might,
still holds atoms from that original sea.
Here too hovers with intent and foresight
that bird who writes my tale in to His story.
Oh water, upon which your Spirit descends,
drown me and birth me – my beginning and end.