What, I wonder, would it be like to hear
The sound of his footfalls
On the shaded floor of the garden
In the cool of the day which he made,
Still bright from creation's first rain
And dripping in fruit and all that is good?
Or to hear His first question,
Asked of us all, the first sadness,
Ringing down through the ages:
"Where are you?"
Like an echo
Out from the mouth
Of some deep cave.
"Why do you hide?"