He beholds the horse
And marvels at the being that it is—
Its noble bearing—
Its undeniable presence.
He looks into its eyes
And knows that something is there—
An intelligence not entirely unlike his own—
Quiet, but attentive.
Present.
Amazed and intrigued—
And all the more in knowing
That the Great Worker of Wonders Himself
Has made the horse—
He exclaims his awe
In the reverent question,
“What are you, my friend?!”
And he marvels on and on
For life.
And this same man,
In deep appreciation for
His place in the Creation,
Imagines that if he were ever to meet
One of the holy angels—
One of those who come next to God
In the holy order of things,
Whose body is of Heaven
And not of Earth—
He imagines that,
Seeing that angel,
He would be smitten
With wonder even more—
At his power
And his excellence
And his humility—
And further still with the intrigue
That the angel,
Unlike the horse,
Might reveal, perchance,
Some mystery
Of this Earth,
Or of Heaven,
Or even of God himself.
And though not expecting to meet an angel
Anytime soon,
Still the man rejoices
That his life has been set
Into such a glorious nature,
Both above and below.
But then he notices of himself
An unsettling truth—
That he does not look upon
His fellow man
With the same wonder
As upon the horse,
Who is beneath him
In the order of things,
Or the angel,
Who was made a little higher.
And he wonders at
Why this should be,
And worries that it might signal
That something is off in his soul,
That he should not be
Enamored with his fellow man
As with the horse and the angel.
And he ponders this,
And asks around
In search of understanding.
