The Fatalist speaks first, and cries:

Death is the final end!

All men to nothing tend.

There is no God to rend

Us from the grave. Depend

Upon it – death’s the end.

And so – why stop to think?

Just blue this tiny link

‘Twixt birth and death on drink

And drugs, fast cars – a mink

Or two. Blow up life’s pink

Balloon – why stop to think?

The Humanist, outraged replies:

There’s not a single seed

Of life in death – agreed.

And God is dead indeed!

But man is great! No need

Has he of pious creed –

Religion is the weak-kneed

Man’s escape. Be strong and lead

The good life. Go and plead

The cause of those who bleed

Beneath injustice. Heed

The cry of man! Then, freed

From pain and war, our breed

Will make its heaven. We’ll need

No dreamed-up God – the mead

And crown are ours! We’ll

Rule this cosmic bead.

Then, soft as when the west wind sighs:

There comes a sound that seems both far and near

At hand – now indistinct, now bell-like and clear.

So does the tide steal in unnoticed, till so near

That its bright sparkling splash alerts the ear,

And what we’ve always known, at last we hear.

So, shall we let the deadening night of fear

Snuff out the daystar? No! Let the dawn appear!

Its every ray proclaiming “I am here”.

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