Old man, old man, He never closed a door...

Old man, old man, He never closed a door unless one opened. I am desolate, for a most sad resolve wakes in my heart. But I have still my faith; therefore be silent. For surely He does not forsake the world, but stands before it modelling in the clay. And moulding there His image. Age by age. The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard. For its old, heavy, dull and shapeless ease; but sometimes—though His hand is on it still— it moves awry and demon hordes are born.