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 rarely what to us might seem,
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.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.
