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!
