How here, in the deep emerald work of his hand,
eternally dreamed and eternally planned,
a sometime paradise fashioned for man
and woman to bear the first image and spark
in a world born from chaos, formless and dark?

How here, where grace allowed, for a season,
the loved to endure unthinkable treason
by our twisted motive, and our broken reason,
could we sire bedlam from what has been made
so earth’s seams now are torn and edges are frayed?

How here, where ancestral seed, in the garden
of Eden, was granted undeserved pardon,
could we lust for darkness, allowing to harden
our hearts to hideous acts and to crave
things of the night, and the pit, and the grave?

How now, among history’s pages of greed
and corruption and vice and every misdeed
from malfeasance to terror, from squander to need,
could we not, though shrouded in gathering pall,
as one, ache for final Redemption of all?

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