The Hymn about Ink

Could we with ink the ocean fill

You go to the beach. Instead of water washing up on the sand, it’s black ink. Ships sail past in the distance, on top of it.

And were the skies of parchment made

You go outside in the morning to sip your coffee. There are no clouds, no sky blue, no orange sun. It’s a giant piece of paper so big it takes jets several minutes to fly across it, from the horizon on one side, all the way to the top of the sky, and all the way down the other horizon.

Were every stalk on earth a quill

Every single blade of grass in your yard (have you ever counted how many are in one square foot?), every stalk of corn in Kansas, every tree trunk in any forest — all of them are quills people write with.

And every man a scribe by trade

All 7.6 billion of us writing furiously, nonstop. Picture everyone in a packed soccer stadium with a pen and a bunch of paper all writing simultaneously.

To write the love of God above would drain the ocean dry

Nor could the scroll contain the whole

Though stretched from sky to sky.

“The Love of God”

by Frederick M. Lehman