Yet Do I Marvel

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning,

And did He stoop to quibble could tell

The little buried mole continues blind,

Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,

Make plain the reason tortured

Is baited by the fickle fruit,

If merely brute caprice dooms

To struggle up a never-ending stair.

Inscrutable His ways are, and

To catechism by a mind too

With petty cares to slightly

What awful brain compels His awful hand.

Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:

To make a poet black, and bid him sing!