All that man is, or yet is meant to be,
All history past or still to come anon,
Is but one breath of vast eternity,
From birth’s first cry to death’s dominion gone.
From murk he rose to greet the dawning  light,
And from all fours stood upright, bold and new;
Subdued a savage world through will and might,
And with freed hands, gods in his image hew.
To graven forms he offered thanks and praise,
These icons wrought in awe of his own clay,
And bade his kin in solemn chorus raise;
Where grave devotion might reveal the way.
Some carved their gods of wood, and some of stone—
One breath their source—yet each believed his own.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.