Sing to the Lord a new song; sing to the Lord, all the earth . . . . Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice; Let the sea roar, and all it contains; Let the field exult, and all that is in it. Then all the trees of the forest will sing for joy before the Lord, for He is coming. (Psalm 96:1, 11–13, NASB)
Gabriel has been summoned to the throne of God. He approaches the Son and bows.
“Now, Lord?” he asks.
“Go,” He says, and the bright angel leaves in a flash of light.
The Lord rises from His throne and sets out on a long journey. He enters time and space, on His way to a faded blue speck of a planet hanging on the outer web of a galaxy He sang into being long ago.
He passes constellations, and He hears their singing. But there is a sadness, a dying in the old starsong. “Is it time, Lord?”
Descending, He walks on the river Euphrates—the wind a spiraling chaos above demon-haunted depths, where rebel angels rattle ancient chains.
He whispers, “Hush”—the waters calm. The waves, kissing His feet with their tears, ask, “Now, Lord? Now? Now, Lord?”
He approaches the ruined portal of Eden, and enters in. He sits beneath a tree and scoops the earth into His palm. All the living things sigh with memory and groan with a longing for the last Adam to make them new again. They join the muted chorus of all creation, murmuring, “Lord…”
He turns to the wilderness, feels burning sand beneath His feet.
Then, a shifting silhouette rises from the dust, buzzing, prattling. “Even now, you can avoid the pain. Of birth. Of death. Bow—”
The Son exhales—the Shadow retreats into the crags, and drifts away like chaff on the wind.
The Lord turns to a small, lighted home. To a young girl.
Gabriel is leaving. “She knows,” he says.
The Lord nods. “Now.”
The Son takes on flesh.
And the girl sings.
A new song.