The crown never needed a head.

  “He did not create to be seen. He created because love couldn’t stay silent.”

  There was no command.

  No let there be.

  Not yet.

  But something had already begun to break.

  Not the void—

  the veil between glory and generosity.

  He did not shape light.

  He released it.

  It poured—

  not like water,

  but like memory returning

  to a world that hadn’t been born.

  Light did not arrive.

  It declared.

  It came from nowhere,

  but it felt like home.

  And for the first time,

  the void wasn’t empty.

  It was full.

  It was not lit by fire,

  or star,

  or sun.

  This light did not cast shadows.

  It eliminated them.

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  It had no source.

  Because it was the source.

  It moved without motion.

  It warmed without fire.

  It revealed what had never been hidden.

  And in that radiance,

  something formed above it.

  Not a throne.

  Not a temple.

  Not a place.

  A crown.

  It hovered, untouched,

  burning with flame that did not consume

  and did not need a head to rest on.

  Because this was not a symbol of rule.

  It was a symbol of will.

  The intention to give,

  without asking anything back.

  The crown bore no name—

  because the act of giving

  was its identity.

  It gleamed—

  not with diamonds,

  but with desire.

  The desire to love,

  and in loving,

  to create.

  This was not pity.

  Not obligation.

  Not design.

  This was abundance

  trying to become generosity.

  It was not power.

  It was overflow.

  And the flame within it

  flickered in rhythm

  with a heartbeat

  the void had never known.

  Heaven was not yet spoken.

  But it had already been imagined.

  Not as distance—

  but as invitation.

  And in the depths of this glory,

  Elohim saw everything He would one day form—

  not as objects,

  but as witnesses.

  Not as servants,

  but as sons.

  The light did not spread.

  It remembered.

  It remembered Eden.

  It remembered blood.

  It remembered resurrection.

  It remembered the tomb

  before it ever held a body.

  It remembered thorns

  before soil touched skin.

  And still—none of that had happened.

  And still—it burned.

  Because the glory that filled the silence

  was not waiting for a future.

  It was the future,

  pulling creation into itself.

  He created not from need—

  but from abundance.