They told us that we lost our lofty place
when Galileo shattered Ptolemy’s
concentric spheres, hurled Earth into the seas
of ever-growing, godless outer space.
They told us that the precious human race
originated in a cosmic sneeze,
dust specks upon a dust speck in the breeze.
They lied about our Father to our face.
If in a suburb of the Milky Way
man shelters in a modest cottage, he
must do so lest he love excessively
this paltry place, take breaking dawn for day,
or looking up adore the finite skies
and lose a universe that never dies.
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