As Your Lordship Pleases

“But our God is in heaven; He does whatever Hepleases.”— Psalm 115:3 

They say He sits upon the circle of the earth 

And we — proud, thinking beings — are but dust dancing in sunlight. Yet dust has its duty; It glows only when light touches it. 

We call Him Sovereign, 

But we forget what sovereignty means: 

Not tyranny, 

Not whim, 

But wisdom wrapped in mystery — 

Decisions made beyond the reach of our calendars and clocks. He does whatever He pleases, yes, 

But His pleasure is never careless. 

Every act, every silence, every seeming delay 

Is bound to a reason, 

Tethered to a principle, 

Rooted in a law older than time itself. 

Every act of His hand is “according to” a pattern 

Those who honor His patterns 

Are honored twice. 

And those who defile them 

Taste ruin in double measure.

The world is not a dice cup. 

The heavens do not gamble. 

There are patterns at play 

Too intricate for mortal eyes, 

Too sacred to explain to flesh that fades. Men, in their haste, call it luck — That fickle wind that blows where it pleases. But the wise know better. 

They have seen the King at work, 

And they understand that even chance Bows to principle. 

So they tagged it favor — That sacred intersection 

Between human preparation and divine opportunity. For even the wind does not blow in vain; It bends the tree that dared to grow upright. Thus it is not randomness that rules the world, But order — divine and unseen. 

And every sorrow, too, sits within this order, Though we cannot always trace its thread.

Hence the man who chases butterflies Will return weary and empty-handed. 

But the man who builds a garden Will wake one morning 

To find color fluttering around him. That is the law of favor — The quiet rhythm of divine symmetry. And yet, 

Even the most prepared hearts Meet moments they cannot prepare for. Tragedy visits without knocking. 

Tears write stories no ink dares to repeat. And faith is forced to speak 

When reason has lost its tongue. 

I once saw a shepherd, 

Heavy with his own sorrow, 

Console a flock that grieved beside him. His voice trembled — not from doubt, But from the unbearable weight of still believing. He whispered, “It is well,” 

Not as one who understood, 

But as one who refused to let grief have the last word.

And I thought — 

Perhaps faith is not the absence of questions, But the courage to kneel while asking them. Perhaps “It is well” is not a declaration of peace, But an agreement to trust 

Even when peace delays its arrival. 

We do not always see the reason behind the pain, But reason remains, even when unseen. The righteous are sometimes taken early, Not in punishment, 

But in protection — Removed from the evil yet to come, Spared from storms still gathering beyond the horizon. So we bow not in defeat, 

But in recognition — That the King’s ways are higher, 

His seasons wiser, 

And His justice never blind, 

Only timed. 

So, yes, our God is in heaven, 

And He does whatever He pleases. 

But His pleasure is perfect, 

And His plans, though hidden,

Are never hollow. 

So build your home like a sanctuary, 

Tend your life like a garden, 

And when fortune smiles, know it is no accident. 

For nothing — not even grief — is wasted 

In the economy of His will. 

The universe hums to His order. 

The sun rises by His decree. 

And even silence — 

The long, aching silence — 

Is still part of His speech. 

So let men mock what they cannot measure. 

Let philosophers argue where faith has already bowed. For I know that our blindness does not prove God’s absence, And just because men have limited resources to perceive, Does not mean there is no reason; 

It only means the reason sits beyond his reach. 

As for me, I will whisper, 

Even through trembling lips — 

As Your Lordship pleases. 

Poetryhelpedme … Olaife