Hey—a man with his arms up. Strong’s H1887, הֵא: behold, lo. The moon sometimes appears larger over the horizon. The size and the distance are the same.
The sky is wiped, and every lamp put by. No sun is needed, nor the lesser light. The former heaven passes with the earth. A city stands, and has no need of lamps. The glory only answers for the day.
The moon looks larger over the horizon. The size is still the size. The reach, the reach. A trouble, too, can swell against the rim, and still be what it was before it rose. What swells above the rim is only seeming. The measure holds; the distance does not change.
Turn back the leaves. Before the lamps were hung, there was a light, and all of it was good. Before a sun was set to rule the day, before a moon was given to the night, the word went out, and what it named was good. He did not name it first. He named it one: an evening and a morning, undivided.
We do not say a nothing made the world. No void was pressed until it yielded form. The speaking is the making of the light. Not vacancy compelled to fill a void, but spoken breath, the fiat, and the light. Behold. The hands already lifted up.
And when two days are gathered into one? Before the fall, communion in the Name. The seam came after. Union was the day. No tree between the walker and the light. He answers from the cross, and not the clock. Today, he says, you will be with me there.
