Long have they borne God's hate Whose blood in ignorance commits the theft Of His first attribute; Whose hands less strong than deft, Wringing hard breath from color, word and stone Strive to create— Reduced and smeared, but living as His own— Life's hidden root. Not in His image, neither by His rules, They summon forth the sun, define the shade; And with a driven strength Lift up his heavy tools. Their worlds once made, Have neither breadth nor length, Yet in them thunders roll And lightning plays; The glitter of a thing once dead and now alive Asserts its soul— Born of a dwarfed, distorted seven days They dare to thrive. |