If there is only this meat
And silence after,
Then why hope, tears and laughter?
Why joy, bitterness and sweet?
Is love nothing but illusion--
Chemical fires of the brain?
Who wrote the rules of pain
To teach the bounds of dissolution?
Who framed the stars and wrote them bright
A symphony scored with notes of light?
Why then Monet's dreams or Mozart's gift?
Fibonacci's spiral points the way
For There IS an Author and a Plan.
It is His beauty that uplifts
From the dirt this feeble man.
It is His love that bids me stay
And drain the grace that fills my cup
It is His life that fills my veins,
And His table where I sup.