In the knot of a tree or the wisp of a cloud,
In the life of the morn, or the quiescent eve,
Is the face of a saint, or the Virgin in shroud,
Should the eye of the seer devise to believe;

But the skeptic is lost as the Prodigal Son
When by chance he perceives a façade in the sky
And is captive the bars of retaliation
Against scripture and chaos as truth, by-and-by!

And in much the same way as our Luke had once told,
An agnostic returns to the host of his school,
And the skeptics forget that they knew the kobold
Who affiliates with such a fine band of fools.

And eventually all of the skeptics are gone
To agnosticism or the faith in a Lord,
And forget, they might quick, of the passionless throng
That they were in the sardonic times of before.

Not the tree nor the cloud is directly of God,
Nor His Son, nor His Cross, nor a prophet or priest,
But that nature is here might just be a faint nod
To the fact that the Love of this world is a feast.