The Skeptic
"I don't believe in miracles,"
He said, then poured the wine,
Made out of grapes, and they of water
Flowing through a vine.
"That's only natural," he said,
And took another breath,
Which transformed spirit into flesh,
And held at bay his death.
"Nonsense," he said, and poked the fire,
"Believing lies is tragic."
Then watched the wood turn back to nymphs,
But never saw the magic.
"Then show me one, and I'll believe,"
Said he, with thrust forth head,
But he wouldn't, couldn't,
Although one rose from the dead.