Sunrise and the Night is Donne

The night is at its end. A few minutes ago it was firmly in place, but now the horizon to my right is tinged with purple surmounted with teal, while the horizon to my left still retains vestiges of the slumbering night upon its dark blue face. The moon hangs as silent sentry above me, smiling down with its Cheshire half-grin. It started slowly, but now traces of purple line a gold and rose hued sky to my right while the birds raise a joyful symphony underlaid by the grumblings of the waking city. A ruddy light gilds the undersides of clouds the same color as the delicate lavender haze that edges the horizon.
There is something about the sunrise that makes the soul feel free, as if it could break the fragile fetters that bind it to this temporal plane and taking wing, return to the heavens which are by right its natural home. Too son the harsh light of day will reveal what was known all along - that the fleshly ties that bind us to this finite world, though fragile, are strong and are not ours to break. One day, someday, the soul will fly free and wing its way to God, but not today; not now. In the full light of day the world again seems ordinary, no longer gilded by the first rays of the sun. In those first golden gleams it seems that we can see the world as it is, as it was meant to be - before we screwed it up. It as if our souls have descended into a deep slumber, numbed by the powers of night, and in those few transient moments between night and day, our souls stir and for a brief instant remember what they are, who they are, and then sleep again dulls our eyes, and we see only what can be seen.
I cannot see the sunrise with out remembering that I am more than what I am, more than a pile of bones surmounted with living flesh. I am this, and I am more. I am a living flame, a spirit delicately wrought by the Eternal Hand. This is curious indeed, and I am truly fearfully and wonderfully made.* Only God could mix the free and formless spirit with mud and come up with something great! Who else even think of doing such a thing? I mean, really - mud?
Sorry if my thoughts today seem odd and wandering....blame it on a friend of mine who got me to read some John Donne...blame it on Donne's Holy Sonnet V: I Am A Little World Made Cunningly. My thoughts are not usually this ethereal and hard to gather. My brain is Donne for! :)

Holy Sonnet V: I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements and an angelic sprite,
But black sin hath betray'd to endless night
My world's both parts, and oh both parts must die.
You which beyond that heaven which was most high
Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it, if it must be drown'd no more.
But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire
Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler; let their flames retire,
And burn me O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.
- John Donne (1572-1631)

*Psalm 139:14