My Tongue

Mine is a cunning implement!
There is nothing which may
Deny me wielding it,
Yet I have an o'ercoming awe at the thought,
That might I strain the sea of my wisdom,
Even so might I catch a minnow!
Yet in cocksure faith I wield
This cunning implement.
I deny the convictions of sages.
I make argument with God,
And reorganize His creation
Upon a foundation of words.
I create a justice for man
Out of the stuff I fling forth as wisdom.
The implement which is mine is light-
O'erlight, I'm fearing, and should I fling it clear,
Desiring to decapitate my brother,
In an instant lo! am I beheaded!
Ah, 'tis a cunning implement
A-deed, my tongue!