What I call God's hand,—you, perhaps,—mere chance
Of the true instinct of an old good man
Who happens to hate darkness and love light,—
In whom too was the eye that saw, not dim,
The natural force to do the thing he saw,
Nowise abated,—both by miracle,—
All this well pondered,—I demand assent
To the enunciation of my text
In face of one proof more that 'God is true
And every man a liar'—that who trusts