The Problem of Pain

Lord of the winding trail and trackless waste
Of pastures, and the forested expanse,
The dusk was riding- shadowy it paced,
A thousand questions gamboled at its heels,
A host of queries fluttered from its lance.

Maybe the dusk, the trees, the field, and I
Are pictures in Your mind- and nothing more
HAVE You a mind? Who are You Lord, and why
Knowing the desperate limits of my view
Should I dare question why? My God You are

Yourself- a Being dim, if known at all;
And 'I' -if here- a flicker, or a thought.
A thought that's fixed on You though- should it fall-
This shell I'm housing in, all which is You
Will keep all that is I- the rest is naught-