Yet Do I Marvel

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, 
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why 
The little buried mole continues blind, 
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, 
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus 
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare 
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus 
To struggle up a never-ending stair.

Inscrutable His ways are, and immune 
To catechism by a mind too strewn 
With petty cares to slightly understand 
What awful brain compels His awful hand. 
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: 
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

Countee Cullen
    

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