Each day I see the fire of Your passion
blooming outside my window,
and You cover me with the dark velvet
of Your starry cloak at night;

Each morning I feel Your smile dawn upon me,
sometimes in radiant glory,
sometimes dimmed behind
a gentle veil of tear clouds;

Each evening I taste
Your breeze on my face,
smelling Your presence
in earth and trees and rain.

Who am I
that You hung up galaxies
in the midst of nothing
to woo me?

Who am I
that You cared to carve elaborate patterns
into shells, to weave intricate symmetries into feathers
to romance me?

Who am I
that You invented perfect palettes of colours,
of sounds, of smells, of textures, of tastes
to delight me?

Who are You
that You made Yourself like me,
emptied Yourself of Your splendour,
came close to be seen, to be touched, to be kissed,
to be listened to, spoken to, questioned,
rejected, hunted, betrayed, abused, tortured, murdered

to declare Your love?