And why the hell unleashed through tiny gates
When heaven is the destined end of us?
Come, answer this: what justice comes too late
To rescue sufferers? Why treat me thus?
Alas, for though you doled out life from trees,
We took bad fruit and unlocked doors to hell
and death and barren wombs and lost the keys.
I am no less than all the rest who fell.
Perhaps I suffer more for all the joy
I've glimpsed through tiny gates whence heaven bleeds.
For all the thief comes nigh yet to destroy
I know the restoration yet precedes.
The door yawns wide beyond the narrow paths,
But why this hell that cuts me off in wrath?
postscript
Poetry has long been the medium of those who shake their fists at the sky. Including King David.