SCOTT ALEXANDER MCKENZIE

We tend to speak of God in certain terms,
And some do understand while others don’t,
In conscientious hearts: belief confirms,
Alas, in those whose souls be closed: it won’t.

Some say that only fools shall trust in God,
With sureness same as those who do believe,
Yet simp’lest of percepts doth show it flawed,
And thee who cannot see is but naïve.

So if you dare explore, I do enjoin,
You wander solemn verses with free heart,
In search of such bejeweled and crucial coigne,
‘Tis found when hanging ‘round René Descartes.

So, settle in… from here, we do proceed,
And, in the end, I hope you will accede.

- Scott Alexander McKenzie

God is here among, within, and with us,
But how, you say?  I cannot see His face,
With clos-ed mind, you won’t, so let’s discuss,
And view some simple ways He splays His Grace.

The silence of a morning mountain lake,
Reflecting snowy peaks and spotless skies,
The chickadee that chirps at first daybreak,
Whose tune was waked by warmth of yon sunrise,

Communes in this grand sym-pho-ny of life,
The seeds of which rest gently in her nest.
From dust, they rose; amid this forest strife,
And by His plan, in dust they’ll later rest,

From ash to life, what wondrous feat is this?
How could it be, without God’s inf’nite kiss?

​- Scott Alexander McKenzie

Bewildered one, art not ye now convinced?
As leaf washed clean by rain can at last breathe,
So can thy mind, once thee by God evinced,
Or dost thy specious dogma ever seethe?

And dost thou have the mind to set apart?
With Man on this and Nature over there, 
Like basic shapes and lines upon a chart,
A lamentable, over-simpled error.

For Man is of Nature and so we know,
That Nature contains Man, and that is fine,
There is but one dust and we all do flow,
From God’s grand code, be it this bee’s or mine,

Is there doubt in your mind of this... after all?
Acorn and you: sep’rate paths when you fall?

- Scott Alexander McKenzie

​But surely our tech is sep’rate you say,
How can a gear be of Nature that way?
Hard angles splayed in a spok-ed array,
There’s no God in machines… you hast’ly pray,

Find thee a comb full of honey and bees, 
Or wee spider’s web, strung up in yon trees,
Wilt thou draw lines, between Nature and these,
Or state that His Plan: it comes in degrees?

But equations... oh my! Man: he hath used,
Designing these wholly unnat’ral things…
To thee I remind: Fib’nacci educed,
Seashells by God’s math, Newton: Saturn’s rings,

In sum, my dear friend, Mankind is His plan,
Too, though you doubt, are creations of Man.

​- Scott Alexander McKenzie