Man Is
Man is but dirt of earth,
A mere mold of clay;
Measured in height and girth,
A sculpture per se.
Created to console
The sculptor's sad heart,
He is given a soul
And knowledge in part.
Alas, it's not enough,
Temptation's too great;
The serpent's guile too tough:
Woman seals his fate.
He sees with marble eyes
His likeness to God;
Lives and in living dies,
Becomes again sod.
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