A worthless sonnet here I fling to you,
For no mere play of measured words in rhyme
Could ever finish what I hope to do,
Could speak His beauty, awful and sublime.
When God decided on the seventh day
To rest Himself, and all His labors quit,
He took the pen that scribbled out His play
And tossed it as His fancy would permit.
Today I hold the pen that Chaucer held,
I see the light of Heaven up above,
But I am seeking words that none have spelled,
A word for love that’s lovelier than love.
A hundred words have said far less than one,
That Word said ere the spinning of the sun.