The Birth Of Light Poem by Albert Laighton

The earth was without form and void; the deep
Wore on its face a pall of death-like gloom.
A secret spark kindled by Breath Divine,
Hid in the bosom of primeval dark,
I, in unconscious consciousness, did wait
The Word omnipotent to give me birth.
Upon the waters moved the Spirit of God:
' Let there be light,' proclaimed the Almighty voice,
And forth I sprang, the glad, immortal Day;
The child of God and of mysterious Night.
Swift as I sprang, the pall of gloom was rent,
And farthest space grew radiant with amaze,
And the new world afloat in splendor lay.
O'er me anon Heaven's azure dome was arched;
The waters were divided; and the Earth,
Obedient to the Voice commanding all,
Put on a robe of verdure and of bloom.
Still grew Creation's miracle; the sea
Swelled wave on wave and sang exultingly
Melodious anthems to the listening shores,
While in its hidden, never-sounded depth
The pulse of life began to leap and throb.
Then living creatures swarmed the fruitful land;
And last of all (the best and crowning act)
From out the dust of earth God fashioned Man,
And in his nostrils breathed the breath of life,
And he became a living soul, and bore
Within the image of the Face Divine.
For him, this kingly creature, was I born;
Each step to show, each spot illuminate.
And ever to nourish, quicken, and sustain
His being from my glowing heart, the Sun,
And yet he changes, — he, creation's lord;
And I change not, — I, the immortal Day!
King of the starry hosts.
The muffled tread
Of centuries in their solemn march awakes
In me no saddening thoughts of age or death;
Earth's thronging shades my lustre cannot dim;
Though I have seen proud empires rise and fall;
Though cities, great in their magnificence,
Have sunk in earth and vanished from my gaze,
And nought but crumbling ruins mark their graves;
Though Time's worn trophies thick around me lie,
Its blight falls not on me; I ever wear
The same unchanging flush of morning bloom.
I am impartial as the air or dew;
My blessing falls on all; the rich man's gold
Buys not my favoring smile; I have no frown
For poverty; no kindlier falls my glance
On palace walls than on the beggar's hut.
I tread where mortal footstep never dares;
I kiss the mountain-tops, whose hoary heads
For ever wear a veil of clouds; I creep
With shining feet down deep ravines, and chase
The brooding shadows into viewless air.
But ah! the grave — my glances reach not there;
Though with my sunbeam fingers I may strew
Its sod above with flowers, I shed no bloom
Within; God's eye alone can pierce its depths.
And thou, O man! through Him alone mayst hope
To read its silent, awful mvsteries.