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|The gift of being cannot be a given:
How many trillion accidents made me?
And yet it seems no accident to be,
Nor seem I less the driver than the driven.
Knowledge cannot penetrate my freedom,
So absolute it seems I am that am.
God may or not exist; I must command
In practice, day-to-day, my tiny me-dom.
Very little something seems, it seems,
Is what it is: a glimpse of greater glory.
Nor can I be the author of my story,
Graced to witness truths beyond my dreams.