Time is a pen in our Creator’s hands,

Space his paper.  He traces bold designs

On the vast blank, limns features – lands,

Suns, seas, forests, fish – all creatures – lines 

On the emptiness of white, curling and coiling

Under love’s press, as the pen on the sheet

Drafts populations out of dim, roiling

Forms forged in unimaginable heat.

Us too he sketches patiently, from womb

To birth, through youth and the ripe years to death,

Modelling us for life beyond the tomb,

By sure craft shaping us till our last breath.

So with time we’re drawn, and finest art,

To live outside time’s range, inside God’s heart.