The ultimate toymaster watches from upon His gilded throne,
A multitude of life below in a quandry thrown.
Life itself must be for Him such a fascinating sport,
why else has He toyed with nothing else for eternities untold.
The power to currupt and mold, create and finally slay,
must in itself hold such sweet joy such wicked wicked sway.
The world is but His box of toys, the universe his park,
unlimited the games He plays for Him its just a lark.
Instead of plastic cars and dolls, He holds within His hands,
an hourglass with time itself as everflowing sand.
His countless minions roam the skies, traverse the lowly land,
His power and control exempt not even a grain of sand.
Whenever angered He wields upon the earth a mighty sword,
perhaps when bored His attention strays towards some other world.
Countless men have tried and failed to guage His one true form,
but meaningless gesticulation is a fruitless mortal norm.
Time imemorial has lain a witness to His mastery of all,
He has engineered the rise of man and will one day bring his fall.
His mind concieved the Sun and earth, His love created man,
His genius lies in his detail, His evergrandoise plans.
Though His love and mercy know no bounds, HIs wrath engenders death,
There are several ways to get to him but groveling is the best.
The rules he has made for you and me do not apply to Him,
He is the judge, the court, the law and all that is in between.
Self confidence is His forte, forgiveness His domain,
He is entrenched in every heart through happiness or pain.
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