There are things
 Too wonderful.  
 Too glorious
 For the Creator to entrust to you.
 
Power producing combinations.
 Formulas beyond our grasp.
 Mysteries we'll never comprehend.
 The finite blindly grasping at the Infinite.
 Things that if we knew how to do them,  
 We would just as quickly undo them
 Just to watch something die.

 We are to be pitied.
 Scorn would be more appropriate.
 Brigands rejecting life-giving water
 For a diet of the sea.
 Why?
 Because there's more of it.
 
Entrusted with glory.
 Only to claim it as our own.
 Questioning the generosity of the Giver.
 Only to say it isn't enough.
 He isn't listening.
 He isn't here.
 He has forgotten.
 
One whose memory doesn't fail
 Though our names are written on his hand.
 For our benefit more than His.

 What's that your holding?
 It's your reputation – my stepping stone.
 It's your power – mine to selfishly wield.
 It's your presence – my token for entry.  
 It's your body – mine to abuse.
 It's your compassion – my play thing.
 It's your creation – my resource to exploit.
 It's your only Child – my Savior to patronize.

 It means nothing to me.
 Can I have more?