A scribe is commissioned from heaven.  “Write down what you see without leaven.”

He’s much like the painter on canvas of white; painting from memory a dream born last night.

The scribe deftly fashions his glory filled words, striving to translate the beauty he’s heard.

His colorless palette is but black and white.  Still letter upon letter he gives the blind sight.

The glory’s not his for he has not a clue.  He has not approached any closer than you.

He thinks he is blessed but how should he know? Except that by faith to God’s throne room you go.