The inadequacy of the Editing box to carry a sonnet

(so i'm sticking it here 'till you've sorted it out.)

On having proved the existence of God to my own satisfaction

Mere words cannot express the wisdom of his face.
His brow, neither wrinkled as the newborn,
nor deathbed smooth.
The line of his jaw, more permanent, solid,
than diamond or crescent moon.
The artist cannot paint, in colour, texture,
shape eternity, nor the scientist graph his reason,
as the inspired musician can divine his mood.

His sun-kissed temples will never feel the muzzle of a gun,
nor the tributaries of his hands be dammed.
The blades of his back bear muscle, and his load is lightly borne.

He has been much abused, by many, for their own gain.
Truth is difficult to accept if it hasn’t been earned.