From N. D. Wilson's Death by Living: Life Is Meant to Be Spent:

This world is all incarnation. Words made flesh. Words. God has seen and God has said. His imagination is bone-shaking and soul-shivering, and He has never groped for words to capture (and be) those things. He imagined galaxies and clogged drains and sharks and harmonies and emotions and running and villains and foes and fungus and that heavy marriage of airs that we call water that can skip rocks and light and wind, that can quench and freeze and baptize. He imagined and felt the ache of a mother's love and the mortal yearning caused by the thrust of time and the speed of a falcon and the fear of a hare and minor cords and the smell of carpet glue. And none of these things were as good as ideas. They became words. Sounds mouthed by the Infinite. Rhythms, verbally and fleshed and shaped by the divine. They were spoken.