The last gift

God, squatting on his hunkers,
wipes the clay from his broad fingers,
contemplates his morning's work,
and hums a faintly indecisive, wondering tune.

"Arms, legs,
two eyes (still closed),
ten fingers, toes,
- it looks alright -
this creature made of earth,
this mud-pie thing."

God sits and thinks a while
"- what else? -"
then takes a sucking breath
and kisses it to life.

"I give you love," he breathes,
"enough and more to spare.
I give you struggle,
- not too much - to make you grow.
I give you all of me to play in
and sufficient nerve to jump into the dark,
and curiosity and little glimpses of the infinite
- divine temptations! -
and some questions without answers.
Then here's joy and peace and gentleness,
and power to create
to bind, to heal and to destroy.
I give you wisdom, and the courage to be foolish,
trust and patience, faith and hope. 
I give you birthing, changing, dying, 
and the sense to know your time."

And filled with God-breathed gifts,
the creature stirs, mud glowing into flesh,
and stretching, wakes.
And God looks on his work
and smiles
and cries a tear
and sucks another breath.

"And last I give..."
he sighs, and pauses - for the last gift is the hardest,
"last I give you freedom."
And God turns and walks away.

Feb 23rd 91