We speak of God as King, on high,
A sceptered hand, a watchful eye.
The Master Plan, the sovereign Will,
Each motion bound, each moment still
Beneath a gaze that sees and guides,
Where destiny in preset tides
Flows onward, sure, from source to sea,
Bound fast by the divine decree.
Ultimate Autocrat, we deem,
The Architect of every dream
And waking hour, the chain, the key,
Controlling all eternally.

Yet softly whispers ‘nother thought,
A different vision, newly wrought.
What if the Divine, vast and free,
Doesn’t command, but lets just be?
Not holding reins on star or soul,
But yielding to the cosmic roll?
What if its nature is to flow,
To become what intends to grow?
To not constrain, but to allow
Itself to be, here, always, now.
To be the current, not the shore,
The open door, forevermore.

Perhaps the power isn’t might,
But simply yielding to the light,
To the unfolding, wild and vast,
Where future’s cast, not from the past’s
Fixed mold, but from the vibrant hum
Of what may be, what may become.
No Puppet Master, pulling strings,
But the deep source from which life springs,
Allowing space for chance and grace,
For every form, time, thought, and place
To simply be what it can be,
In boundless, wild divinity.