Who is to say what happened last night? And when?
What first stirring of a finger,
what small electric snap?
Who is to shrink the awakening God
into easy morsels?

We cover our eyes with our hands,
and think we cannot be seen.
We fail to understand
and think we have proven a negative.
Horrified at not knowing, we conclude
that there is nothing to know.

How, and what, exactly, is not given us.
Mystery it was,
and mystery it remains:
that death, like our own, a mystery.
Our rising, like that one:
Something will happen.