We wander from book to theory, from politician to righteous philanthropist. We lope from the weaving of the planets to the growth of our cells in the Petri dish. We are ravenous, throats dry and hacking, searching the nascent wilds of the rain forest, the high-tech dark matter lab. We range, faint of hope and heart, feeble in body and spirit, just like Amos, the prophet, wrote nearly three thousand years ago:
Behold, the days come, saith the Lord God, that I will send a famine in the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord: and they shall wander from sea to sea, and from the north even to the east, they shall run to and fro to seek the word of the Lord, and shall not find it.
Lord, spare us this lack that is at our heels. Don't take your words away from us. Let us pile them to the roof, stacks running out into our yards, our garages, our parking areas. Let us quench our parched throats and and eat our fill each day. We will get to work with sated hearts and purpose—plotting the data accurately, chronicling appearances of new particles, maybe just getting out of bed, speaking a kind word. Keep our eyes reading and seeing, our ears hearing and understanding. Lay your words deep, deep, sear them upon our hearts, our minds, our lips.
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