Rock is alive, though we classify it as inorganic matter. Its lifespan is the length of the universe, so it doesn't say 'hello' because it can't perceive our brief fly-by; its day is a thousand of our years. It reproduces with other rock in sheol, in the secret guts of the earth.
Maybe, or maybe not - but maybe the poetic language offers a door for reflection about the eternal God and Man's brief sojourning. Maybe there is some truth to the wording, just as the world is a globe though it isn't.
'Aha,' says the empiricist, 'rock is inorganic, case closed. Onto- comes before theology, if there is to be such a latter. Logic judges Revelation.'
Judges? No, Revelation sets the bones of logic.
Musterion stands in one place, and we often can't find him; he often finds us. He walks a tight-rope in flip-flopped scenery, and he looks strange to us; he looks strangely at us.
The Word was made flesh; the Word was made strange, and it dwelt among us.
-r
