Hidden

In dogma is the secret that renders God unconditioned, on one condition. “If you are not My people, I am not your God.” As fashioned by His people's witness, a made thing, God, condemns the made things graven images are. Inscribed as born wittingly of Himself, God is (so to speak) that Father abler than the most sovereign earthly father to make all things good. God the Father is conceived as for us. Purposive, stewarding, benign, He covenants our living on. “Written in continuance” in His Book before they took form were the parts of our fitful bodies. As if what's given with the world is life only, life, and not (along with it, in time) at last, life's needful withdrawal, God's said to let the truthful keep their lives forever if they swear God does what He says. These are the portions: either I'll outlast death or it me. Little matter which if it's the avowed God I'm given up to. That I'm settled in the finite is what's true instead. Living is a good I don't want stopped even for the saved. I'm beholden to it all the way that, in its one chance each with me and others, death hasn't used itself up yet. Mine affords me another day hours before it's light. Along with the caused things outside that I can't see, I'm here ahead of myself again toward that coupling with the ground when “I am poured out like water.” Death's still to be heard from at its least reserved. Under its breath it primes me to pay up and look pleasant.