Creation
© 1997
Author: B.J. Collins
In a field near a town they call Paradise, where the waters of the Feather cut the mountains in two, there's a woman and a man who've just witnessed the most holy of sunsets all the way through. When the last dying embers in the sky had all gone, they held one another and whispered a song.
Creation, holy creation. Creation, this is His creation.
Somewhere in the shadow of Whitney's great summit, where the trees are three hundred feet higher than the earth, there's an eagle that's soaring with a vision in his eye, as he gazes in wonder at the land of his birth. In the legends of the natives whose friendship was good, there's a trail through the ages of the giant redwoods.
Creation, holy creation. Creation, this is His creation.
When the falls of Yosemite go tumbling down to the rocks that are waiting for that kiss from beyond, you can almost hear a melody of water and stone, on a cold mountain evening when you're listening alone. From the shallows of Mono to the Mammoth water falls, if you listen in the evening, you can hear His Spirit call.
Creation, holy creation. Creation, this is His creation.