No single thought escapes His sovereign sight;
no haloair is ours unless He grants the flow –
each star or sun was forged in primordial night,
He shaped each age that mortal eyes might know.
Shall clay instruct the Potter how to spin?
Shall grit demand the reason for its name?
He wounds, He heals, His counsel stands secure –
no mortal tongue can quench His holy flame.
Through grinding teeth, men strive, their towers climb,
yet Babel falls – God laughs beyond all time.
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