The river whispers under its breath, soft
syllables of God, fluent and sure.
Leaves applaud as the wind explains truth,
each one nodding, swayed by its touch.
Philosophers point to the stars, mapping
meaning in constellations, tracing divine
geometry. Their voices spill like ink—
logical, precise, but still incomplete.
Meanwhile, artists light candles in shadowed
rooms. Their brushes dip into gold, lifting
him towards color, framing his kindness
between subtle strokes of eternity’s edge.
Saints live barefoot on sharp stones, an icon
of faith walking beside silence, their hands
folded around prayers that bloom, radiant
and fragile as morning descending in mist.
Yet Jesus—walking, teaching, breaking bread—
is the burning center. The breathed Word,
the letter alive, God’s face unveiled, his
divine reach clearest in the human touch.