these tissue cells of mine
reach not divine
you hiding in kingdoms no life can see.

of bravado, such swagger
your creation mocking--
fickle physics
trembling.

how are we to love
who dares not show his face,
and rely on myths
and slavishly pray?

you can't expect me to ignore
this age defying feud--
this prolific of agendas--
you being Lord, I being servant.
can you not predict rebellion?
Am I a puppet made of wood?

with will you say, free we are--
a child's concession, indeed.
for what with will can I do
but burn to dust and ash.

what with will
but to choose death,
or you,
who hides
where flesh
can't go.