There are those who will tell you, with deep satisfaction, that God is dead and man is thereby released from the bonds of superstition. But God is always dying. The gods of the cold northern forests are gone, yet they are not truly dead, but merely asleep beneath the snow. The gods of Assyria lay beneath the ruins of the ziggurats, waiting for the day they will wake. Aristotle did not believe the god he believed in was superstition. God is real, by whatever name, for man must believe in a greater power than himself or he is nothing, will have come from nothing and will return to nothing. Rome abandoned its gods for the cult of Hercules and was returned to God by Constantine. As so the cult of secularism will go the way of all cults, and God restored.

The temples rise above the plain
To glisten in the sun
For only god can bring the rain
Or see that life’s begun
The northern forests snowbound slept
In silence and the cold
Yet men still knew where Wodin stepped
And knew the message told
Alive they were to those they led
No superstitions they
And yet today we deem them dead
In deepest sleep they lay
And so it was until the morn
A stable filled with joy
And unto us a child was born
A tiny baby boy