Classic Poem

This making is a mystery. Me He made
And left to build my being as best I could;
A child afraid who for protection prayed,
Worsted by wrong, but wanting to grow good.
A man betrayed yet blessed by circumstance,
Seeking self-knowledge, learning through mistake,
To shaped experience half compelled by chance.
What work was His, where mind its self must make?

It is He that hath made us, and not we
Ourselves . One moment's aftercome I live,
Flawed with inherited humanity,
And fooled by imperfections wrought through race.
This He first fashioned; this He can forgive
When granting His unapprehended grace.