The soul is an infinite thing. It is an active force and an agent of change. Nature and entropy both kneel before it even as they hate it, for they are merely random, and the soul carries the quality of being deliberate.
Higher beings have a soul as well. Indeed, they have very powerful ones. Yet their "infinity" is of a lesser quality. For to them, sacrifice is necessary for new growth, and new souls are parts broken off existing ones
How then, can such a thing be captured, even for a moment, in such a thing as fleeting and fragile as flesh?
Because of this:
Shakespeare would turn in his grave, for the monkey has typed out Hamlet at long last.
A randomly created yet precise assortment of chemicals that interact in just the right way with the correct raw material to form proteins, creating elaborate self-perpetuating structures of them. These proteins perform functions collectively called life. And somehow this structure of pure luck happens to be able to contain a soul. Or in one configuration, perhaps even create one out of nothing--the human recipe is precise and permits only a very slight variance to keep its effectiveness (about 0.1%). But follow it and somehow the result is a lowly animal of flesh with the birthright of consciousness.
Human souls are essentially made of dirt, yet are bona fide souls nonetheless. Their souls survive the death of its material vessel just the same. And they breed, creating yet more souls from more dirt. All because of a tiny strand barely visible to the human eye.
What else to call this but a miracle?