The old priest sat on the ancient bench
Peering silently toward the sky.
When he was addressed by a brash young man
As he smugly sauntered by
Padre, you should know, he said
I’m not a God-fearing man.
No God designed this earth we’re on
From a half-baked master plan.
The old priest then turned toward him
Benevolance in his glance
I take it then, your theory is,
It all occured by chance?
Of course, the arrogant youth replied,
How else could it have been?
The atoms just formed together
To create this earthly scene.
Could you on the morrow meet me here,
The priest then turned to go.
There’s something I shall bring along,
To you I’d like to show.
On the following day the man returned
And he couldn’t quite understand
Why the priest was holding a beautiful print
Of a landscape in his hand.
The man was awed by the lovely scene
There on the parchment drawn
The artist’s name, pray tell me now
Of this colorful breaking dawn.
Oh, said the priest, there is no name.
The parchment was blank, you see,
And on a shelf some colored ink
Had there been placed by me.
On the parchment then, the ink had spilled
I cannot tell you how.
But it formed this beautiful picture
You see before you now.
Impossible, the young man gasped,
Let me see if I understand.
The ink just blended with no help
From an artist’s guiding hand?
Your expression of doubt surprises me.
The old priest looked askance.
Isn’t this the same as your theory posed
That the earth was formed by chance?
The young man closed his gaping mouth,
Then slowly turned away.
Silently he left the scene
There was nothing more to say.
Shelby Forrest