What is it that we oft call God,
That in our lives deft intervenes?
And provides a purpose to our plod,
To fulfilment, the daily means?

And is this a name we too quick give,
To what determinism drives?
The direction of the life we live,
And maybe guides our entire lives.

As if all is set within a plan,
Decided at our birth.
Allotted to each woman and man,
Which will set for us life's worth.

Is God instead something in ourselves,
Or yet a thing ever there without?
In all aspects of our lives deep delves,
And of each one knows about.

Whose favour we seem to be in,
Or ever find that we are not.
Who helps us in life's race to win,
Or abandoned seems our lot.

Takes of us such tender care,
Or leaves us all alone.
When in need is always there,
Or such kindness never shown.

If a thing of our creation,
Do we our course have power to change?
And where we seem denied due care,
Do we have chance to rearrange?

Or is there a life-provided switch,
We can change if an off default?
A course until then disordered which,
If on the wrong track, a chance to halt.

So if God is merely a mindset thing,
Concerning attitude to life?
Do we ourselves have the power to bring,
An end to saddled strife?

I don't have an answer to this yet,
But will give it further thought.
As I certainly seem to be in something's debt,
And by its kindly grip firm caught.

And of the difference when we die,
Does the latter prospect keep us steady?
That once we're gone, in earth we lie,
Are the faithful this thought ready?