In Praise, the Insufficiency of Words

Why should one strive and struggle to write words
That sound so very superfluously good,
When all they mean to do is praise their Creator?
Create an image, they say—
But the image I see is infinite.
All the trees of the forest
Condense into a single point in a single instant
And then explode into an ever-expanding reality.

And in it, here I am sliding about,
Not only amongst the trees,
Because it's not only the trees,
But also amongst all the images,
Everything that is made up of shadow.
Exploding from the point comes an intense light
That has such luminosity as I might be blinded
As it washes away my mind.

But the beauty is that I know this light
Is merely a shadow of something grander,
Something deeper, something thicker,
Something fuller, something more.
And so why should one struggle to write words that can never show
The deep inner gravity of everything true,
The full assurance of something that cannot be changed,
Or the inner solemn joy I have?