The ancient poet sings:
The heavens declare the glory of God, the skies proclaim the works of his hands...
I've just stepped outside of my cabin to hear the shouting. Raving mad stars are exclaiming God's glory. Brightest white points on solid black velvet sky. Darkness and light equally breathtaking, puzzlingly enchanting. They speak the language of glory--a language of which I know precious little. Is there anyone who studies or speaks this tongue? I want to know them, to learn from them.
My German shepherd leans into my thigh, looking up at me for some answer to her longings. Wanting nothing more than tender words and a scratch behind the ear. I give what I can, but own no glory. Does her soul ache? Does it see stars, and want to know their maker, or can she merely see the nighttime forest of oaks she flawlessly navigates at full speed?
Give me a heart, I pray. Give me a heart that can navigate glory and live to tell it. And give me a tongue able to describe the truth. We need to know that we live in a grander place than we can imagine. Scratch my ears, speak tender words. Just don't leave me alone beneath the glory, then force me to go back inside where it is warm, and I can survive the elements.
My soul sees and longs. Please Night, make noise with your song--form words. Yet even the silent shooting star that seems to linger, frozen in the bitter cold of this night, does not satisfy.
The heavens are declaring the glory of God. O for ears to hear what my eyes can see they are saying.