The moon and the stars spin like fairies,

On their endless cosmic dance.

Who but the naïve would ever believe,

That it all began by chance?

How could Nature, all on her own,

Have written such fine poetry?

What could be worse than a pure universe,

Independent of theology?

To see a design implies a designer,

Logic begs us to cry.

The cosmos was built like the squares of a quilt,

On the cosmic loom in the sky.

The finger of God traced out the stars,

Perhaps on some Holy whim.

That begs us to vex, if God is complex,

Then who created Him?