In the beginning was the Word,
And the Word was with God,
And the Word was God.
The Word was a whisper, yet also a shout;
It was a riddle, a rhyme, a response to the doubt,
A declaration of resplendence.
Issued from Divine Lips, the Word became a metaphor—
A metamorphosis into something the world wasn't quite ready for:
An eclipse; the sun's glory was hidden,
Destined to set but come day it was risen,
Bringing light to our vision that we might be transfixed upon the mighty crucifix.
One cross at the crux of the universe around which wound space and time,
The Word’s mere utterance rewrote reality, but even stranger,
A manger, the crash site of something secretly divine.
The Word was foretold to cross that line,
To fulfill prophecy of old and inspire new rhyme by process of illumination;
By glorious narration, the Word was spoken in an infinite mission:
To heal the chasm of an ancient division;
Sent to break the chains of the human condition,
Sent to expose the folly of religion,
Sent to lead a jailbreak from the depths of Hell,
The Word was sent in the form of a lamb, but born to rebel.
And though this grand myth would take a madman to imagine
Make no mistake:
This lamb was born to slay a dragon.
And that’s the Word.