I don't believe in coincidences.

Flip the coin and win the densest part
Of inevitability.
Pick apart the picket fences in defence
Of independent intervention.
Its the sentence, He's sent to sin,
And those of praise, He's sent to Him.

I can't believe in happenstance.

Up your arms with Uhm and Aahs in
Speculative dance.
Talk about chance.
The thought of our stance, keeps us upright
When ruling in favour of gravity.
Though its balance in muscles scant routine
Made design to advocate our advance.

Some label serendipity, or accident. Fortuity.

How could one foresake the
Provident Hand?
The sorter of sands.
Even when disorder shoulders all the sawdust
On the borders of what saw does,
Arranging the insignificant to sense the specks
From His ever-present plan.



© Haiych