Classic Poem

His angels fell, and myriads grope
In doubt, for this dark cause alone,--
That God hath given them room for hope,
And made their struggling wills their own.

In the same breath, they plead for chains
And freedom; pray for ordered spheres,
Then murmur that the sun retains
Its course, unchecked by smiles or tears.

"The Omnipotent would grant us this,
Or else He is not good," they say;
But O, the Power withholds their bliss
Till they agree what prayer to pray.