Carved In Stone

The sea breathes in and out,
lapping at the shores of doubt.
While I look for traces of God,
among the stars scattered about.

Tracing the path martyrs trod,
I view their beliefs as flawed.
Preaching hell and damnation,
they infer God's love's a fraud.

The truth's the soul's foundation,
never yielding to temptation.
And like a cascading wave,
it questions salvation.

Fearing what lies beyond our graves,
we become religious slaves.
And pray we're not alone,
believing that Jesus saves.

I have some sins to atone,
yet can't place God on a throne.
He's a whisper not a shout,
and He isn't carved in stone.
　
　
(An "Interlocking Rubáiyát".)