God is a poet who loves tragedy.
He wrote our tale with ink of misery.
Our poem begins with smile and pain.
Ends with wishes whispered in vain.
God is a puppeteer holding the strings.
When he hums, in choir we all sing.
But what are we in His world's stage.
Nothing but His puppets made of clay.
God is the father of all who breathe.
Keeps sword of justice in his sheath.
Why does he never save the dying?
Why does he never burn the lying?
Maybe we're too blind in his love?
Will we forever beg the sky above?
Will he ever face our questions' rain?
Or pull the strings and make us pray?
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:44 AM UTC
God is a poet who loves tragedy.
He wrote our tale with ink of misery.
Our poem begins with smile and pain.
Ends with wishes whispered in vain.
God is a puppeteer holding the strings.
When he hums, in choir we all sing.
But what are we in His world's stage.
Nothing but His puppets made of clay.
God is the father of all who breathe.
Keeps sword of justice in his sheath.
Why does he never save the dying?
Why does he never burn the lying?
Maybe we're too blind in his love?
Will we forever beg the sky above?
Will he ever face our questions' rain?
Or pull the strings and make us pray?
Is he a good father?
