As sea waves yearn to embrace dry land,
Now turbulent, now calm, always changing,
So do we yearn for God's protective hand,
Seeking clues to satisfy our questioning.
We toil morning to evening -- for what?
Our life, surely, is a weird experiment
Wherein our base body goes down to rot;
But will the soul rise as finer element?
The eternal question to be or not, --
A futile one, since we're here in the flesh.
Our instinct intimates a divine plan,
But science suspects an empty plot.
Yet a still small voice always yearns for God,
Though some folks dismiss this as rather odd.
Bliss is his who can read God's signs well
And, like a good motorist, track life's path
Without a hitch. He reaches higher peaks,
Gets a glimpse of heaven while still on earth.
As faith guides his hands on the steering wheel,
He will not stray into treacherous roads,
Nor will he fear the rumblings of the clouds;
His peace of mind he reckons as his wealth.
But those who choose these signs not to heed --
Their fancy on worldly assets must feed --
Lose sense of direction and face dead-ends,
Where securities may yield no dividends.
O grant Thy road signs are ever before me,
That I may secure my right way to Thee.