The entire Bible as one body of light: 31,102 verses as glowing motes wheeling around a radiant centre, threaded by a single scarlet curve of redemption.

Alpha and Omega

a story about the Light

The primordial beginning, before anything is made: an immense formless dark, the deep, blue ripening to indigo and violet across the whole frame (never pure black), swept in long slow ripples. High and to the left, off-centre, a single small brilliant star of the first light is struck — white-hot at its heart, gold close in — and long directional rays rake outward across the vast dark, dying quickly into the deep. No figure, no ground, no landscape — only the first light just begun over the great deep. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

Before there was anything,
there was the Light.

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." — John 1:1

The first morning of creation: a brilliant rising light low over a great gathered sea that swirls blue-green and gold beneath it, under a radiant dawn sky of blue, rose and gold with birds rising, the pale morning moon still hanging high in the blue opposite the sun; fresh green new land bursts with the first wildflowers and jewel-coloured fruit trees along the near shore. The world, newly made, and the light that made it — and it was good. Hidden faint in the shore is the Hebrew reference for Genesis 1:3, "Let there be light."

The Light made the whole world.
He put colour into the dark.
He put morning into the night.
And it was good.

"And God said, Let there be light: and there was light." — Genesis 1:3

From the upper-left a great radiant gold arm of the Light reaches in, index finger extended; below it a small child stands on the crown of a little round hill of red earth, reaching up toward the Light, grass just waking on the hilltop where the light falls. Between the Light's fingertip and the child a brilliant white-gold spark leaps the gap — life being kindled — against a deep blue-and-violet sky full of stars. Made from the dust of the ground, and given the breath of life.

Best of all,
the Light made you.
He knew your name before you did.
He made you on purpose —
to be near Him.

"All things were made by him." — John 1:3

A great swirling golden sun pours light over lilac hills onto a green meadow full of wildflowers, where a small child kneels in the sunlight with butterflies rising around him and a white rabbit nearby. Beside him in the grass a white hen sits with her wing spread low, two yellow chicks peeping out from under it and a third standing at her breast looking up at her — as a hen gathers her chickens under her wings. Everything He made, He made for love.

What was He like?
Everything He made, He made for you.
Everything He did, He did for love.
The Light is love.

"God is love." — 1 John 4:8

A road runs out of a warm gold light behind the viewer, passes under the feet of a small hooded figure and narrows away into a deep cobalt-violet dark, vanishing at the horizon. The figure is seen from behind, mid-stride, walking away from the light; the last of the gold still catches his shoulders while the cold touches his far side. His long shadow is thrown forward up the road ahead of him, reaching the vanishing point before he does, and behind him a line of dimming footprints leads back into the blaze he came out of. The near ground burns gold, the far ground and the sky go cold and violet — the first turning, the great refusal. High on the left, out of the dark sky on our side of the picture, a great arm of gold light reaches after him, its hand open and empty, still held out.

But you let go of His hand.
You turned your face away.
No one pushed you.
You walked into the dark.

"By one man sin entered into the world." — Romans 5:12

A garden at night in saturated cobalt and gold, fruitful even in the dark: a floor recedes in perspective; a luminous gold column of walking Light sweeps a bright road toward a cypress where a single small child hides behind a fig bush, peeking out over its broad leaves; jewel-coloured fruit trees stand in the dark, and a sky of long arcing strokes curves around two great burning stars. The Light comes seeking the one who hid.

He came looking.
You hid.
But He called you —
and He called you by name.

"Where art thou?" — Genesis 3:9

A vast cold waste under a churning cobalt and violet night. A stone road comes in from the near left, frays into loose scattered stones and stops dead; past it the ground is trackless. A tiny hooded figure stands alone far out on that empty ground, turned back the way he came, and his own footprints lead from the last stone, wander, and come round in a wide circle back to his heels — he has been walking in his own tracks. A few dead thistles stand in the waste and three far crows cross the empty sky. On the horizon behind him, very small, one warm gold glimmer burns: home, still alight, a long way off.

You went far into the dark.
Then farther.
You could not find the road.
You could not find your way home.

"The wages of sin is death." — Romans 6:23

A churning daytime sky over a low hill; a small red child is carried far up into the wind like a balloon, tied to one unbroken string that arcs down to a radiant golden hand reaching from below — the Light holding the string fast, never letting go.

But even then —
far out, like a balloon on the wind —
He was holding the string.
He would not let you go.

"They shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand." — John 10:28

A huge dark storm fills the frame, cobalt going violet, its clouds wheeling in curves around a single break torn open in the middle of the sky. The rim of that break is lit gold and white-hot at its centre, and out of it a straight shaft of light falls, widening as it comes down, landing in a pool of warm gold on the dead plain below. One tiny figure stands in that pool, looking up. Inside the pool the ground comes back into colour and a few dead thistles catch the light; everywhere outside it the plain and the storm stay cold and dark. Off to the left one lone sycomore tree stands bent in the rain, dark against the storm, the side that faces the beam just warmed by it.

Then the Light did what no one expected.
He did not call from far away.
He did not send someone else.
He came down into the dark Himself —
and He looked until He found you.

"The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost." — Luke 19:10

Wheat hills at dusk under a rising spiral sky; a road climbs from the far country, over a rise and through a hollow, and ends at the near rim of a huge valley — a great gulf plunging into deep blue. A small child in red stands at the brink, reaching toward a warm gold home that glows on the far rim, across the gulf, too far to reach on foot. The road home has run out; only a bridge from the other side can cross.

Now you wanted home
more than anything.
He set your feet on the road.
But the road stopped
at the edge of a deep, wide valley.

"I will arise and go to my father." — Luke 15:18

A deep dark canyon at dusk. A tall luminous cross spans it — its long glowing cross-beam is the walkway across — and a small child in red crosses it, led by the hand of a taller golden figure, toward a house glowing warm gold on the far rim. The cross is the way.

It was too wide to jump.
It was too deep to climb.
There was only one way over:
the Light would become the way.

"I am the way." — John 14:6

Darkness over all the land at noon: a sun gone black with only a thin grieving corona of dim gold, a heavy mourning violet-blue sky, and on a dark hill a cross of dark wood from which the gold Light clings and pours out, draining and spent into the dark; drops of deep red fall from it, and at its foot a small child in red is curled and sheltered. From under the cross two rents run down the hill toward you, the rock split open, the lip nearest the cross catching the last of the gold. The whole price paid, in your place. Deep sorrow.

The way home cost everything.
The Light paid every bit.
He took the heavy dark
on His own back —
and carried it instead of you.

"Christ died for our sins." — 1 Corinthians 15:3

Night. On the right a mass of rock rises out of a pale sand floor; on the left the land opens into a valley with far hills stepping back under a big night sky, a small cold moon and a scatter of stars. Cut into the rock face is a tomb: a tall doorway with a rounded head, pure black inside — the one true black in the picture. A great stone stands on the sand rolled across the right half of that opening, its left shoulder pale in the moonlight, a hard shadow down its right flank and a deep shadow beneath it, and a thin line of gold light escaping down the join at its left. A cord is stretched across the stone and fixed to the rock on either side with lumps of red wax pressed with a seal — the tomb made sure. A path climbs from the valley past a date palm and ends at the stone. A second, older cut stands empty away to the right.

They laid Him in the dark.
They shut it with a stone.
For three days
the whole world held its breath.

"He was buried…" — 1 Corinthians 15:4

The same burial hill as the page before, now at dawn. The sun is up over the valley on the left and the city on the horizon has morning on its walls. The cave mouth cut into the rock is wide open and blazing: white and gold light pours out of it, fans across the rock in rays, and spills down the sill onto the sand. The great round stone has been rolled clear and stands on the sand away to the right, at the end of the track it rolled along, throwing its shadow away from the tomb. The ground is pale and warm, green is pushing up through the sand, and small pink and white flowers are open where the dead scrub was.

The dark could not hold Him.
The stone could not keep Him.
On the third morning
the Light stood up.

"He is not here: for he is risen." — Matthew 28:6

A churning gold wheat field under a turbulent blue-green sky; a pale road cuts a diagonal; a small figure has taken three steps in, while from the far house the father, already past halfway, runs with dust flying.

You still could not walk
the last step home.
But while you were a long way off,
He saw you — and He ran.
He would not let you go.

"When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him… and ran." — Luke 15:20

A pale path runs from the reader’s feet up a green hill to a radiant open door of gold light standing in the crest — the way home, thrown wide open, warm light spilling all the way down the path; beyond the door a whole world of colour.

The way home stood open.
It was a gift.
You did not buy it.
You only opened your hands
and said: thank you.

"It is the gift of God." — Ephesians 2:8

The full bright new world: a swirling dawn sky over a flourishing green meadow loud with wildflowers, fruit trees and sheep. Dead centre stands the Father's house ablaze with light — gold walls, a terracotta roof, white-hot windows and one glowing door opening on a whole world of colour beyond. Up a curving path the radiant golden Father carries a small dark child high on his shoulders, the child's arms flung up in joy, bearing you home through the door. He layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.

He carried you the last of the way,
in through the open door.
Once: lost in the dark.
Now: home in the Light.

"This my son was dead, and is alive again." — Luke 15:24

A small child stands beneath a dense vertical waterfall of brilliant white-gold light pouring straight down from above, glowing hard against a deep blue-violet surround. A clean radiant white robe of light overtakes the child from the head down, while the old scarlet rinses away below — vivid red threads paling to white as they run into a bright pool of light at the feet. Two white doves fly in toward the fall against the deep blue surround, their wings silver and their breasts a soft green-gold, and white water-lilies bloom on the dark still water at the bright pool's edges. High contrast, dynamic, downward-streaming brushwork. Hidden in the fall are faint six-armed snow stars — "white as snow".

He washed you with His own hands.
Every stain went.
What was red
is white as snow.

"Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow." — Isaiah 1:18

A child stands in a wide rolling meadow at dawn, and the light of the whole picture comes from inside him: his chest blazes gold, every tree throws its shadow away from him, and the clouds overhead are lit along their undersides. Nearest him the world is fully awake — deep green grass, trees in white and rose blossom, colonies of jewel-coloured wildflowers — and the further out the land runs the cooler and quieter it stays, the old world still waking to colour. Motes of seed-down hang glowing in the air around him, and one orange and violet butterfly, the sign of the new creature, floats beside his lifted hand. Hidden faint in the field are the Greek Γʹ·Γʹ (John 3:3) and the words ΚΑΙΝΗ ΚΤΙΣΙΣ, "new creature" (2 Corinthians 5:17).

He made you new.
Not mended — new.
And He put His own light
inside you.

"If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature." — 2 Corinthians 5:17

Under a swirling golden morning sun, a small child in deep red kneels sowing on a furrowed field; rows of young green shoots lean toward the light, and one gray rock sits in a row with nothing growing from it.

Your life began again.
Everything you planted grew.
Everything you watered
came into flower —
and the flowers into fruit.

"He that abideth in me… bringeth forth much fruit." — John 15:5

In a bright new-creation day a small hooded child sits at rest in the dappled shade of a big green apple tree, in an unbroken flowering meadow, an apple resting in his own two hands; a few more red apples hang in the branches and lie scattered in the grass all around him, provided in abundance; a soft pool of light rests further out in the open field; sparrows peck seed and white trumpet lilies bloom nearby in the grass; vibrant light-blue sky, gold low on the horizon, wildflowers growing in colourful colonies across the rolling ground.

Every day He feeds you.
Every night He keeps you.
And He lights the next step
of the way.

"I am the bread of life." — John 6:35

A churning storm bends a young tree hard to one side while a small child in deep red shelters at its trunk; below the soil in cutaway, the tree’s roots glow warm gold, reaching deeper than the tree stands tall.

Storms still came.
Storms always do.
But your roots had gone down deep,
and they held.
He would not let you go.

"The floods came… and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock." — Matthew 7:25

A wide green country valley under a bright sky, with trees standing along the low hills behind. The road the child has been walking comes down out of those hills toward the reader, widening as it comes, packed pale earth worn smooth along its crown. Three children are walking down it together. The middle one has skidded on the loose stone of the steep part and is going down, and the two either side have caught her by the forearms and lean back against her weight. Grass and wildflowers run away on both sides to the trees.

You were not alone.
Others walked the road with you.
When one of you slipped,
the rest held on
and pulled you up.

"A threefold cord is not quickly broken." — Ecclesiastes 4:12

Night in a field, camped. Four children sit in a ring on the grass round a low fire, the near side of the ring left open so the fire is between us and them and there is a place for the reader. One child, seen from behind in a red hood, sits at the near edge. Across the fire a child in blue tears a loaf and holds half of it out; a child in yellow reaches for it with both hands cupped; a child in green laughs beside them. The fire is the only light: it lights every face, throws their shadows outward, and glows warm on the near side of a canvas ridge tent pitched behind them, its mouth open and dark. Split logs lie ready at the edge of the light. Beyond, the field goes dark under a deep night sky full of stars.

He gave you a whole family:
many faces,
one Light.

"They continued stedfastly in… fellowship, and in breaking of bread." — Acts 2:42

A dark night room in deep blues; a small child in deep red kneels at a bedside, head bowed; a thread of small golden lights rises from their hands to the top of the frame while a wide soft golden light descends around the child like a wrap.

When the dark came close,
you talked to Him.
He always answered.
He always said: I am here.

"Call unto me, and I will answer thee." — Jeremiah 33:3

A great radiant Light fills the whole frame: a blazing white-gold core, concentric Van Gogh ray-swirls turning outward into every colour at the rim, and a quiet heart traced in the innermost ring. No figure — this is the Light Himself. God is light, and in him is no darkness at all; and God is love.

The Light who made you.
The Light who loved you.
The Light who came down
to bring you home.
This Light is God, and His name is Jesus.

"I am the light of the world." — John 8:12

A great radiant open door of light stands dead centre, blazing gold and ringed in glory, opening on a whole world of colour beyond — bright sky above, a lush colour land below. From under its threshold stone a clear river of living water flows out, shallow over bright pebbles at the door and deepening to blue as it broadens toward the viewer, ripples lying across it and reeds on its wet banks. The warm land all around turns toward the open way. An open, welcoming invitation: whosoever will, come and take the water of life freely.

Now He holds the door open.
Will you come home?

"Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." — Revelation 22:17

A cold deep-blue night, sparkling faintly; far ahead on the horizon a great radiant gold Light glows like a home, ringed with golden light. A bright golden road reaches back from it across the dark, to two small travellers low at the left: the recurring red child — washed clean, glowing with a soft white aura — has turned back, taken the hand of a darker figure still standing in the shadow, and points the way up the road toward the distant Light. He leads the other home; the Light ahead is the true source he only carries and reflects.

Then He gives you work to do —
the best work there is.
Take a friend's hand.
Show them the way home.

"We are labourers together with God." — 1 Corinthians 3:9

Hopeful dawn; the child in deep red, washed clean and glowing with a soft white aura, reaches out a hand to another child still in the shadow, and the light and warmth pass between their hands into the one just beginning to catch it. Far off on the dark side, a small town sits on the crown of a hill, its windows lit — a city set on a hill that cannot be hid.

His light is in you now.
So carry it into the dark.
One small light
is enough to see by.

"Let your light so shine before men." — Matthew 5:16

The heavens tear open near the top of the sky and a great radiant gold shaft of glory pours straight DOWN toward the earth — the King, the Light, descending in power. The cloud parts at the rift, a spectral rainbow arcs across the opening, and gold sparks rain down the falling beam. Below, on a small dark earth where the shaft lands, tiny figures including a small red child lift their arms UP toward the coming Light, and a great flock of birds rises from the land in two curved streams to meet the descending glory — caught up together to meet the Lord in the air. Behold, I come quickly.

One day soon
the Light is coming back.
Not for the world only.
For you.

"Behold, I come quickly." — Revelation 22:12

The New Jerusalem at the consummation: the Father's house grown into a radiant city of pure gold climbing a hill, many glowing homes and towers with white-hot windows, crowned by an open gate. At its heart burns the Lamb-light — a great white-and-gold radiance that fills the whole sky so there is no sun and no candle and no shadow anywhere; the one page with no dark at all — and round about it a bow of light, in sight like unto an emerald (Revelation 4:3). The foundations of the city wall are garnished with the twelve precious stones in their order, jasper to amethyst (Revelation 21:19-20), and lilies are carved on the tops of the gate pillars. A pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeds out of the city from the throne: it sweeps across the far meadow and comes down to the reader as clear aqua water, the jewel stones of its bed showing through it, lined with trees of many kinds — palm, olive, fig, cedar, apple — and on its near bank stands THE TREE OF LIFE, the grandest tree of all, its emerald canopy bearing exactly twelve fruits in twelve different colours, one ring round the crown, each with a gleam of the light. Up the banks the redeemed walk in the light with their faces lifted, and among them one small red child — you — home at last, arms flung up to the glory. And there shall be no night there.

At last you will be home for good.
No more dark.
No more tears.
No more night —
only the Light.

"There shall be no night there… for the Lord God giveth them light." — Revelation 22:5

You came from the Light.
You are going home to the Light.
And all the way —
there was the Light.

Every light here is one verse; the red thread is the blood. "In him was life; and the life was the light of men." — John 1:4 · all 31,102 verses, placed by their true distance from the Word.