A bud that blossoms late
A bud feels bounden to Nature's wise will,
She has perhaps little of her own cue;
A brigand, dispensing his bitter pill,
Knows little to surrender, nor has he trust due.
God when created man the crest of cream,
He gave him a free will to weigh and will,
Decide; delve in will to chase what's his dream,
O to prove Him right by reaching atop the hill.
In patience He goads him to go there still,
O past many a primitive false start,
For, He prefers in prescribing no pill,
Faith He has plenty in the wisdom of man's heart!
Yet, wit sans wisdom, a baggage of man,
Lets him no good a lump of clay to be,
Poor Him on potter-wheel aught keep His ken—
The whole wide view of what-can-be to see.
As Nature knows little else than to smile,
Man alone thinks he's made to hail all height,
He's strayed so far e'en on a smallish isle;
Perhaps one day he'd prove: God wot what's right!
- Musings | 07.10.10 |
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