The world is formed from chaos, shaped to rise,
directed headlong, made to take a course,
coherent, yet recalling from its root
the shake and tumble deep within its core.
By aspiration order fills the world;
by memory an endless shifting flows;
and here in present now they interweave,
a whisper of the formless in its form.
The past is rich with promise, future hopes
are mixed inchoate, sprout, and come to be,
like saturated fluid brought to heat
then let to cool; from storm are all things born.
All order is the working of a lure,
all tumult shaped by hope and love.
Christ has all the godlings tamed:
we know their haunts, we speak their names,
we hear their whispers lace the air,
and majesty and strength are there.
But never do we rise to pray
or sacrifice to keep their way,
nor ever do we bend the knee,
but stand before them, less but free.
Though some revere, yet all are bold:
we love them as the tales of old;
their rumors hint an age of gold.