A prophet walks into a bar and sings a hymn "I have good news, weary friends." the drunken gods all roll their eyes 'round to hear "The almighty—he has need of your sorrows!" 'finally, a song worth singing,' one cries "A love, a guilt, a melody, the crying babe and laughing pauper, the sin-lover in anxious piety; Ye are the heart the soul's palm, eyes and ears to the Almighty rendered weak by existence; Ye are the salvation of God, and he your resting reward for palm to plough for sorrow and snare" A cry rang out: 'heil this grateful god!' 'heil,' the weary echoed promptly they strung him up, this prophet and as he cried "My god, my god, why hath thou forsaken me?", the saints, drunk now on the holy ghost rang in retort; 'fear not, prophet! our god is want for your song too do cry out! do writhe!' A great 'Amen' they sang each night thereafter this, the revery of the dying gods for what is a bar but a church in the making?