The Playdough Poem
by Sandra Edwards
The little lump of playdough I'm holding in my hand
Reminds me of the simple fact that God made man.
The playdough didn't get here by evolving from something else,
And it won't transform into anything in a million years all by itself.
The hand that holds the playdough is a marvel to behold:
Created by the hand of God, it's worth far more than gold.
Muscles connect it to my arm, nerves connect it to my brain,
I can write and squeeze and hold, caress a baby, draw a plane.
The playdough can do none of these, will never even think to try,
And it never will develop brains, a stomach or an eye.
The parts that make my body and the things that I can do
Prove that millions of years of random chances can't possibly be true.
I'll think of my lump of playdough when I hear talk of Evolution,
And know that my maker's in charge of my life--he's the God of all Creation!
Psalm 115:15! Sandra Edwards, www.theplaydoughpoem.com