For all of this amazing world, I praise—
Praise whom or what I cannot rightly say,
Because the mystery of creation stays
Still unrevealed to animated clay.
Though many speculate, suppose and guess
Or frame experiments to figure out
The underlying laws, with some success,
None absolutely banishes all doubt.
Yet here I am, alive, with consciousness,
And the teeming world a glorious miracle—
Surely there must be someone to address
And praise and thus relieve a heart that’s full.
The sun is up, and each bird sings its song—
Let me, attuned, atoned, just sing along.