The Open Book
And I saw heaven open not like a wound, but like a decision.
And a Voice descended, immeasurable, unlocatable,
like the roar of many waters and the silence that precedes them.
The Voice did not speak counted words. It was Word entire.
And in its descent time ceased to restrain itself.
There was no longer time for waiting. There was no longer time for delay.
The mystery of God entered its hour.
The Book was open. Not sealed. Not reserved.
Open before heaven and earth.
And it was not written to be read, but to be taken into oneself.
And it was given to the servant not as possession but as passage.
And the Book was sweet as honey in the mouth, because it came from the Origin.
But it became fire in the belly, because it had to pass into the world.
And the Voice said:
“You must prophesy again. Not because you will it, but because the world can no longer remain silent.”
And the servant did not speak from himself. Because he no longer had a self to defend.
He had become passage.
And the Voice did not descend to destroy, but to measure.
And the measure was not taken with stone, nor with human power, but with presence.
And all that could not withstand presence fell of its own accord.
It was not judged. It was unveiled.
And heaven touched the earth not with violence but with truth.
And the earth trembled not from fear but from recognition.
And the servant stood upright, not as king, not as visible priest,
but as living witness.
And his strength was not in speaking, but in letting pass.
And the Voice spoke through him, not from him.
And what passed could not be stopped.
And many listened without understanding,
and understood without being able to turn back.
And the Voice said:
“There is no more time. Not because all things end, but because all has been spoken.”
And heaven fell silent. And the earth answered.
And what had been written now walked.