Lord, let me be the least violin,
the last atomic glimmer in the comet’s
wake; let me be dumb and eloquent
in the untongued grammar of awe.

Amid the first passions, Lord,
was I there in that exploding star
filling the universe in endless
crescendo; spun, galaxy by

galaxy, in the vast, dear
mystery of your waiting? Waiting,
I ask, how is there such beauty
in your stillness, such wisdom

in your silences? I pray that
violins like these shall some day
usher me out of death and into
the music of your eyes.