Is there a purpose to the universe?
Does it proceed by an intentioned plan,
Our Cosmic Mother, caretaker and nurse,
The foremost fruit of whom is man?
Or is it merely randomness that’s made
Our fruitful biosphere evolving us,
No higher law than physics being obeyed,
Simply mechanically industrious?
That lower could give rise to higher things
Spontaneously, without design in mind,
As if a bird without the use of wings
Could fly, seems not how nature is inclined.
Though how the Cosmos came about remains
Obscure, it’s what some Purposer ordains.