Whoever turns a devil by choice?

Whoever turns a devil by choice? —
no soul so wanders, self-betrayed;
A man becomes what God decides;
none bends the course by self — it’s made!

We are but helpless pieces placed,
with no command of our own hand;
The One who breathes the life in dust —
by His own will, our doom is made.

What gain in summoning right or wrong
to one who knows yet turns away?
For even knowing the righteous path,
he acts as though all lies — unmade.

In every mourning, some faint stir —
some rising sound — must there exist;
And every gathering too, at times,
must fall to silence gently laid.

From His own hand the scattered dust
falls over all the world alike;
One place becomes a thriving town,
another barren waste is made.

Man walks in ego with gifts in hand,
as if the crown were all his own;
He gives the worth—yet here on Earth,
a temporary owner — man — is made.