The sun is high, the land brilliant and beautiful
this morning as I tend the flock, the whole
camp behind me, the land before, the burning
heat upon me. The sheep are grazing, and awful
thoughts consume me; thoughts of the glory
I left behind, of the majesty
of the city I grew up in. The majestic
Pharaoh looms large in my mind: his beauty,
his power, his knowledge, his glory.
And now my thoughts turn to another, the whole
event drowning me, and the awful reality of his death, and my soul burns
in agony. The pain is short as a light burns
my eyes; the light is distant, but majestic,
and though the flame wavers, an awful
feeling rises from within. The beauty
of the light draws me forward, and I am wholly
enchanted by its purity, by its glory.
Thoughts of my past filter away in the glory
of the bush, a fire within but not burning
and not consumed. This must be holy
ground. A voice from within the bush, majestic
and great, calls my name, “Moses,” and the beauty
overwhelms me. “Moses,” the voice, awful
and tender, calls me forward, to the awe-filled
presence of the flame. “This is my glory,
this is what you have longed for, my beauty.”
I press onward, toward the flame, the burning
bush that speaks my name, and the majesty
which I yearn for. “Moses, this is holy
ground, take off your sandals; for I am holy.”
My bare feet are against the awful
heat from the flame of the bush of the majesty
of the Lord. I look behind me, to the glory
surrounding me, all from the burning
bush, resplendent in all God’s beauty.
“Moses, I am holy,” the glory
speaks, and the awful presence of the burning
bush is replaced with majesty, and His beauty.
