When I consider all your work, the trim
Consumption fusion makes of hydrogen
In constellations without number, then
Reflect on orbits scattered at your whim,
Each mathematically sure and prim,
Or think of suns and moons not seen by men,
Of space in light-years raised to powers of ten,
Then what is man, that you remember him?
And not just man, but every hair upon
His head, each sitting down, each rising up,
Each turning-point and how it's lost or won,
Each tear, each boisterous laugh, each bitter cup.
That I, a speck of cosmic dust, should be
Both known and loved by you, transfixes me.
(D.A. Carson; PDF)
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