Weaver's Beam

A golden weaver's beam in my right hand and white portals is where I stand; Still and yet moving; How can this be? Portals upon portals white and clean. An open airway with pillars anew; the golden beam with His footstool far below me. Higher and higher these portals go; The weaver's beam let go. Still and yet moving; No more. Clothed with a vail quietly; Thousands upon thousands of golden weaver's beams begin to fall; In an array of no form but a circle within a cloud. My hand stretched and unable to obtain above; Each side to wide. Ascending and descending with ease; among the golden weaver's beams. Scales of sounds that were never written have shrieks of eagles beaks. The width of ascending and descending is more than a pine tree sideways. As a King writes upon a scroll; The living waters flow. Unwritten shrieks and scales unknown. Beyond more than all of the weaver's beams and pine trees that are not still; Is the sound of thunder and lightning of old. Still and yet moving; How can this be? Closer and closer the pine tree gets; Comes a sound that few ever hear. Clearer and clearer can the Praises of God echo from heaven to me and back again. By Christy Miller