still silence,
solemn darkness
broken only
by shouts of
orange
and murmurs of
blue

burst of white
from which daggers
of light
protrude

imagine the Psalms
David
would’ve written
if he could’ve seen
this

This is your work,
Your creation.
You are everywhere,
in everything.
In the vast silence
of space,
our galaxy is but a speck,
one bulb
on your strand
of Christmas lights,
and our earth
is even more miniscule.
You stand on the outside
of this glory,
surveying your work.
“All of creation
sings His name”—
how many times have I heard,
but paid no heed?
It’s true, though,
now I see.

how can they say
this all manifested
from a bang?

Nothing is ever new under the sun.