Man says that He is jealous,
          Man says that He is wise,
     Man says that He is watching
          From His throne beyond the skies.

     But perchance the arch above us
          Is one great mirror's span,
     And the Figure seen so dimly
          Is a vast reflected man.

     If it is love that gave us
          A thousand blossoms bright,
     Why should that love not save us
          From poisoned aconite?

     If this man blesses sunshine
          Which sets his fields aglow,
     Shall that man curse the tempest
          That lays his harvest low?

     If you may sing His praises
          For health He gave to you,
     What of this spine-curved cripple,
          Shall he sing praises too?

     If you may justly thank Him
          For strength in mind and limb,
     Then what of yonder weakling —
          Must he give thanks to Him?

     Ah dark, too dark, the riddle!
          The tiny brain too small!
     We call, and fondly listen,
          For answer to that call.

     There comes no word to tell us
          Why this and that should be,
     Why you should live with sorrow,
          And joy should live with me.