Poetry and religion seem to go together: two approaches to the challenge of trying to capture the ineffable in words. And since every effort to do that is not now and never will be completely satisfying, because its goal is by definition unattainable, there will always be room for more poetry and yet another attempt at religion.
On the surface, it seems that death is triumphant.
It appears as though those who conspired to do evil have won.
No one’s raised who did not fall
No one saves whom God did not send
No one stands whose knees won’t bend
No helper’s not been helped at all
