Creation’s Crown

The blade of grass cares not one whit
for virus fears — among its brethren
from birth to death, no hell or heaven
disturbs its mind, no miss or hit.

The sparrow gives no worried thought
to roof or food or flowing raiment —
no rush to make tomorrow’s payment —
nothing makes the bird distraught.

But man — oh, man! — creation’s crown,
whom God had formed in his own image —
for whom his plan in Christ will finish —
with furrowed brow walks up and down

and back and forth, his heart confused —
his sight of Goodness faded, hampered,
though all his doubts are fully answered —
by bird and blade of grass he stands accused.


    What say you?