Perhaps Christ rose from the dead; perhaps He didn't. And Moses may, or not, have split the sea. So must faith supply what reason doesn't, Singing of how better life could be. Ought one, can one pick and choose one's truth, Vested heavily in being right, Even tailoring measurements to suit Revelations seen in ambient light? Even as one seals one's certainties, A bit of doubt should slip into the soul, Sent to complicate one's harmonies That one might hear the richness of the whole. Each truth's a light that ought not make one blind: Radiant, yes, but gentle, shy, and kind.