On the seventh day, tired of being the only grownup,
God rested. He'd carried infant creation
on his back all week long, every decision,
every jot and tittle his own design.
Just for one minute, he thought,
Could they stop asking, "Why?"
Could they just be grateful for breath,
for cold water, for warm bodies?
On the seventh day, God bathed his feet in the river.
He watched the sun go down behind purple mountains.
And he couldn't help but feel a little sadness then,
having created the hearts of these beings,
already knowing how they would rail against every end.
God rested. He'd carried infant creation
on his back all week long, every decision,
every jot and tittle his own design.
Just for one minute, he thought,
Could they stop asking, "Why?"
Could they just be grateful for breath,
for cold water, for warm bodies?
On the seventh day, God bathed his feet in the river.
He watched the sun go down behind purple mountains.
And he couldn't help but feel a little sadness then,
having created the hearts of these beings,
already knowing how they would rail against every end.
And then you gave birth to this poem and God is pleased, she told me she was. Chrisitan radio takes over NPR here in the desert, but yesterday it was a good thing, a child's voice came on thanking God for trees, rivers, jello .... and it was good. God gets beat down like parents do and rarely thanked.
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