Who but our God can paint thought on the air
In whispered pink, or on sod, shadow-blue?
Who tunes the quadrille of four-season fare
Or etches the limb on moon-lit avenue?
Who can restrain the darkness; rend its veil?
Who fills the bud, draws the fruit from its seed?
Who but our God pours the dawn from its grail?
Lavishing Light on our blindness and need
It is too much for mere poets to pen
This Father of nature and angels and men
Who, in the spring tints the earth with His Heaven?
Who plants the hills, guides the bird to its nest?
Who, with his blood can cry; all is forgiven
And bend to the whispers that bleed from our breast?
Who designs eons of petal-perfection?
Planting the earth with wilted aftermath
Who can declare, I am the Resurrection
Instilling Life where death threatened its wrath?
Thought in its greatest endeavor falls mute
Who dares His holy Deity to refute?
Who can fulfill the heart’s deepest desire?
Offering peace where life’s storm beats and brawls
Who threads vast ramparts with oceans of fire?
Yet beholds the wee sparrow as it falls
Who but the Author of creation’s grandeur
Longs to hold nearest the offspring of man
None can exceed His wonder and splendor
Or count the ages that God’s mercies span
The very soul trembles, within His embrace
Faith grasps His promise and drinks from His grace
© Janet Martin
He does great things which we cannot comprehend. Job 37:5