Small Things

What is it in the small that rings of greatness?

The small voice rings out from the void

And captures the great soul.

The small hope grows from a crannied door

And overtakes despair like a tide.

Yet how do we know? If the voice we hear

Is God on his throne, or madness in our minds?

What’s the clear flag, the legitimate judge?

Follow God, and you follow the Glory.

Follow your small mad self,

And horror waits down a dark alley.

Wisdom distinguishes, or so ‘tis said.

Sophia on her high seat leads Shiva

By the horns, and draws a circle around his loins.

Destroyer? The dark angel tried mightily

And failed in Goshen. Belief stood firm

Against that form of terror. Sophia knew,

Moses commanded, Pharoah rebelled.

It is ever thus, the Triad always tries

To square the circle when the Duad

Rears its hydra-head against the formless One.

Void? Of what? The fullest reach

Of emptiness contains the smallest piece

And still explodes in zero-point denial

Of the vain attempt at micro-extinction.

Hold the point to your heart, and breathe

Its own intention. Death? Then come.

Immortality? That may be.

Reunion with the empty Fullness?
The greatest always starts small.

Remember the true One you started with.

Never release what God gave in the Garden.

Stop still before the first force

And seek the fountain flowing freely.

Chaos died from seven drillings.

How easy it is to die in the wholeness.

How pure to live so fully empty.

Want not, waste not, where not, who not.

Smallness will not wait, it’s infinite implication

Strives against all odds. Even then, the wait is hard.

The soul desires only to return to home and hearth,

Warmth and weaning. Relief and restoration.

What stops it? Only the belief that it differs

From the others in any wise whatsoever.

No separation means always home.

It’s the seeing that fails, that holds to distinction.

We could be heroes, and that tantalizes too much.

We won’t be zeroes, the finality of that flame

Is terror incarnate. Against that night

Enlightenment is a rabbit, cowering in a whole.

The small voice is infinitely small. Few know it.

Fewer hear it, fewer still are beckoned by it,

Even fewer obey, least of all succeed.

That’s the danger. And so we ask,

"Did it speak at all? Did God know me so well

That He revealed His plan, or even that small cog for me?"

Doubt, whose name is Fear, worries on that

More than all the other stand-betweens combined.

So get small. Or don’t get anything.

Forget everything except the small details.

The devil lies in those, and will not be denied.

So? If allowed to listen, some small part

Of all of us can reveal the great heart

In every small voice. Nothing can withstand

The one who acknowledges his smallness.

Against the Great Tide, all hope fails.

So do not hope. Against the numberless Void

All effort ends. So do not try.

All the voice asks is that you do. So do.

Glory in God is doing for God.

All else is numbing commentary.