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There isn’t enough water to wash clean
The evidence of murder — all the blood.
The body, once in white, stripped and obscene;
This One, this fashioner of fire and flood,
Who moulded us from cold primeval mud;
We’ve pierced His heart with science’s shining blade —
No longer will we hear its mighty thud.
The steady beat of ages soon will fade
As in his grave the slain Creator’s laid.
And with what laws will we His laws replace?
And by whom will morality be made?
Who will bestow upon the people grace?
You say, within, these virtues must be found;
But Supermen are thin upon the ground.

— D.N. O’Brien