I doubt not God is good,
well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble
could tell why
The little buried mole
continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him
must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured
Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit,
declare
If merely brute caprice dooms
Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending
stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and
immune
To catechism by a mind too
strewn
With petty cares to slightly
understand
What awful brain compels His
awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this
curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid
him sing!
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