This, my song, a skeptic’s hymn,

ode to mystery within,

Sung to you no one can prove,

dwelling there, as real as love.

Of your forms portrayed without,

all evoke a lingering doubt.

Your own presence you bestow.

From experience I know.

Blind belief and full assent

by maturity are rent.

Questions follow questions asked,

taunt the present, as the past,

Challenge all authority,

scripture, doctrine, history,

Leaving what my heart has known,

what experience has shown.

Nothing more this heart can move

than to know that I do love,

And, as crucial, to believe

I myself can love receive.

Be this but a moment’s grasp,

such conviction long will last,

Firmer than mere faith or guess.

This experience will test.

You, the source of love, I name,

working through my heart and brain.

Be this true for everyone?

Has been so, since life’s begun?

Let religions rise and wane,

love’s compassion must remain.

This is what a seeker learns.

This experience affirms.

Copyright 2013, by William Flanders

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