Burning Gift



A ball of fire suspended in space, millions of miles away, warms me. Today, arctic air touches my face, but still I feel the heat of that fire—my round, white sun. It’s brilliance fills my word; I see by its glow. Its rays force life into this planet, my home. Long swift fingers of light caress, prod, knead.

Life does trail from those radiant fingertips. Life and light and warmth.

My star.

My sun.

My fire.

When I consider the heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him.

Psalm 8:3-4

Copyright © 2008 by James P. Long | Faith and Imagination