Beyond what seems to be reality
Is what we’ve named the metaphysical,
The cryptic Source of physicality,
Without which all existence would be null—
A void or a chaotic wilderness,
Unmindful, thus without a shaping power,
With no supernal being to guide or bless,
Where always randomness and turmoil lour.
But yet it seems, although we may not know,
That underlying all that has transpired
Is some intelligence that made it so,
A creator by whom all life is sired.
If you would mystic benefits receive,
In such a Source it’s prudent to believe.