When time first split apart,
light stepped out from darkness—
drawing a trembling, slender line
across the void.

Creation held its breath,
then exhaled,
and in that single moment
the Imago Dei was formed:

a joy not yet spent,
a brightness untouched
by any shadow that follows all things.

We paint.
We sing.
We write.

And through memory and history—

“I am the one,”
yet honesty does not yet know
the meaning of those words.

The works of darkness do not cease;
fear cannot yet be felt,
cannot yet be seen.

Does soil shaped by night
only imitate the divine image?

Still, creation does not stop—
a quiet flame rising within eternity,

as if gathering shattered syllables
of a language
already spoken
before memory began.

We search for the world’s smallest signs—
momentary glimmers
flickering in consciousness—
like travelers
walking a road
tilted toward eternity,

not yet knowing
whose hands of love and care
are guiding us.

Water poured over dust—
as though without meaning,
yet darkness was quietly lifting
for faces turning
toward the light alone.

Even so,
the seed of the Creator
was being scattered
toward the courage to open.

Even in the ashes of war,
seeds trembled and whispered.

Night descended,
and light fell like rain.
As time arrived on faltering steps,
light dropped, tear by tear,
onto the parched earth.

Dry sight, blind from birth,
met soil kneaded with tears,
until love and compassion
slowly seeped in.

And when darkness finally
settled like tears,

at every threshold of the journey
a small joy rose.
With every breath,
every act of creation
joined the hymn:

the first daffodil,
opening its pale cup
to the cold air of early spring,
whispering
a gentle “yes”
to the returning sun.

It was resurrection
blooming
on Ash Wednesday.

— TaeHun Yoon
February 26, 2026