Alone as he had always wished to be,
Sole monarch of himself, with not a clan,
Nor tribe, not state, nor nation left that he,
Protesting, must obey, has sat him down
Upon the last green acreage of sod
And woven of the pliant grass a crown
To show the rotted dead that he is God. To show the dead his is the only face;
His thought the only consciousness; his eye
The only judge of substance or o space;
His skull the only congruence with sky.
And singing loud his praise he spends his breath.
Extinguishing the universe in death.
Time is short, so I’ll be direct: FIRST THINGS needs you. And we need you by December 31 at 11:59 p.m., when the clock will strike zero. Give now at supportfirstthings.com.
First Things does not hesitate to call out what is bad. Today, there is much to call out. Yet our editors, authors, and readers like you share a greater purpose. And we are guided by a deeper, more enduring hope.
Your gift of $50, $100, or even $250 or more will bring this message of hope to many more people in the new year.
Make your gift now at supportfirstthings.com..
First Things needs you. I’m confident you’ll answer the call.
