In the beginning….
It is a vast, everlastingly black boredom. Nothing dissolves into nothing.
C. S. Lewis’s Aslan breaks the silence that always was. A melody so sweet it brings life. Holes in the canopy let in light from the heavens. The moon blazes in its brave tract; and oh, the Sun. It lights the earth into a fragile, God-swept paradise. The Lovesong continues, growing in volume until Man’s the crescendo and Woman the climax. These two tall, lovely creatures proudly own all creation, because they carry the Singer’s image. Unworthy Creation bows with a single knee before God.
And the Song laughs in its fulfillment. “You make everything, everything beautiful.”

In one devastating shock, a copper stain spreads out from the center of his paradise, slowly permeating the entire earth. The Singer is betrayed by the Serpent. He knew it would happen, but his Love for the Man and the Woman is unwilling to believe hate is muffling the heartbeat of Creation.
The Song fades, as His people kill, hate, and die. “No, no, this is so wrong,” the Singer cries. “I can’t bear to see them hurt like this.”

The weeds grow tall and ugly. The Serpent shadows the Sun with his overwhelming hate. Creation returns to the dirt, and God-images are sacrificed with increasing abandon.
But always, one brave soul listens for the Song. Through the groaning of the Miserable, the Song is still there. Much fainter, but still sweet and pure.

The Singer waits, trusting in the remnant of Hope that remains, and never withdrawing the Lovesong. He dips a quill into ink and hands it to one brave soul. “Wait for the Words.”
He gives a flute to another. “Wait for the Music.”
He hands a hammer to another. “Wait for the Wood.”
He gives an empty womb to another. “Wait for the Child.”

“You make everything, everything beautiful.”

Centuries go by. The Singer’s song grows louder. All heaven bows and sings. “You make everything, everything new.”
A birth consecrates a stone stable. The Woman waited for the Child, while everyone thought she was wicked and even crazy. Now she holds Him in her arms. “Thank you for this gift, Father.”
The Child lies in the straw, and the angels marvel. It is the Singer.

The serpent seeks revenge. He tramples on souls, turns them from the Singer; he blows darkness into the world with his evil breath. The God-man works with his hands and his heart, healing and singing. Limbs and souls are healed and flesh and lives are knitted to the Father’s heart closer than ever before.
“Come to me, Children,” the Singer says.
“I’m here to give you Life.”
“You’re my chosen Creation.”
“I love you.”
Then the Singer says, “It’s time.” The Man waited for this, his commission. Now his hammer weighs a hundred pounds. His tears stain the beams. “Why, Father?”
The Serpent smiles.
The Singer’s Creation turns traitor. They nail the Worker of Miracles, the Author of Love, the Creator of Life, to the beams and raise the tear-stained cross to the black sky. The Woman and the Man stand at the foot, hearts gripped in frenzied fear and agony. “Where’s the Song?” they scream. “Why did you let this happen?”
Never before has earth experienced such despair. The Song is gone. The Singer is dead. His Creation is left to the Serpent’s scaly, merciless hands.

But the Singer cannot lose. Grave-cloths are thrown in the Serpent’s face. The very stones of the earth shake. The power of the Love-song is unveiled at last. The Singer can now start the new beginning.
“Write!” He shouts, his voice echoing through space and time. His people write the Singer’s love story, with joy lit like a thousand galaxies in their faces, the joy that can only come from having been lost, then redeemed. “Sing!” He commands all Creation. They fall on their faces and join in the Song.

“In Your time, in Your time it is beautiful!”