Upon my throne I gaze with weary sight,
A ruler bound to weigh the hearts of men.
Yet virtue falters, shrouded in the night,
And wisdom wanes within the mightiest ken.

What hands shall bear my scepter without stain?
What lips shall speak my will without deceit?
Lo, even David, crowned in golden reign,
Was bowed by sin, his triumphs bittersweet.

I sift through souls, though every grain is flawed,
And choose not whom the fickle crowd demands,
But whom the hidden tides of fate have awed,
Ordained to serve by more than mortal hands.

So let it be—my heart resigns its voice,
For providence commands, and I must choice.