When I consider the heavens made:
Vast voids peopled by atom bombs
Swirling around a dark gravity-drain;
Dust bunnies shine and dance there.
Ice and rock whipped around by its crumb-tail,
Cloud-spheres ringèd with a lover’s aplomb
Blue marble held in its balance so frail:
Mysteries that entrance us.
What could possibly attract the vision
Of the Maker of all this host?
What dust on a speck gets love’s commission
Over angels to reign there?
Furthermore, why would the Maker Himself
Make saving dust His boast,
For dust on that speck leave behind His wealth
To lead ransomed in train fair?