A Golden Thread A poem by Erica Mace When fingers point, accuse the sky For some unwanted episode The wounded blame, and oft deny That their hand also shapes the load, Not only He who sits on high. For did He not an earth create By law and order, by design? And does it not now operate By those same laws, which He makes known, Thus granting us our hand in fate? For once created, life unfolds With consequences predisposed. Not hidden, buried there untold, But preached by science, faith and time That all might know, observe, behold. When law’s unknown, it still remains In force, but we less easily Can see God’s plan, unbind our chains Or be the agents we might be. We point a finger in our pains. But known, these laws inform our thought, Have consequence, respond to tests. Their truth endures, and so our lot Is finding truth and living it-- For knowing only changes naught. The laws we base our lives upon Will cast their shadows,