Abraham had demolished the idols. Now he turned his mind to the elements themselves.
"Fire is more worthy of honor than all things formed," he reasoned, "because even that which is not subjected to it is subjected unto it, and things easily destroyed are mocked by its flames."
But then: "Water is even more worthy, because it conquers fire and satisfies the earth." Yet he would not call water God either, because water is subjected to the earth, flowing beneath it, held within it.
"The earth is more worthy still, because it overpowers the nature and fullness of the water." But the earth, too, is dried up by the sun and given to man to till. So the earth is not God.
"The sun illuminates the whole world with its rays." A strong candidate. But at night, and behind clouds, its course is obscured. Not God.
The moon? The stars? "They also in their season obscure their light at night." Not God.
Abraham had climbed through every candidate in creation: idols, fire, water, earth, sun, moon, stars. Each one ruled by something above it. Each one insufficient.
He turned to his father with a question that contained its own answer: "Hear this, Terah my father. I will make known to you the God who made everything, not these we consider as gods. Who is He? What is He?"
And then Abraham spoke a poem that trembled on the edge of revelation:
Who has crimsoned the heavens and made the sun golden,<br/> And the moon lustrous, and with it the stars;<br/> And made the earth dry in the midst of many waters?
"Yet may God reveal Himself to us through Himself!" Abraham cried. He had followed the chain of being to its end. Now he waited for the One at the top of it to speak.