We, the heavenly host, God’s own army, if you will, have been practicing for centuries, millennia even, for this moment.
We’ll have to dial it back, of course, for human ears could not withstand the sheer volume when we are in full voice. Heaven itself shakes then.
So do we sing (quietly, ever so quietly, leaning forward into the lullaby of sound) of The Divine’s bright glory . . . splendor . . . radiance . . . magnificence . . .
To The One be all glory that can be sung, its sounds woven into the very fabric of creation, which itself sings out the wonder and awe that such a One should be. . .
So do our voices raise (who could help it when singing of such Truth?) . . .
So do we sing that which cannot be named or contained . . .
So do we return from whence we came, leaving behind only an echo of heaven’s own wonder . . .
We turn back, all of one accord, and just before the curtain between our home and theirs again descends, we see in their night skies a Bright Light, their north star.
Who is to say that the leading star was not The Divine’s own self?
With one last pitch-perfect note of assent, the curtain falls back into place.