At the brink did Eden hold its breath as Eve recoiled and tried to think?— as sophistry’s sibilant salesman immortalized Death? Legitimate question: whether the shall or ye goes first; whether the presence of a thirst entails the need to drink. Did Satan stop to picture from his porch a jackknife or a belly-flop? Which fits the dignity he pretended assuages the scorch? When, vans extended, he spurned the land to ride the air, could he, supremely unaware, then fathom the drop? And do I, now standing at the brink, partly wish to be mastered by the crouching menace of predator Sin? How far can I sink before I begin to drown in fear of wind and waves— not crying Lord to One who saves, but shouting Crucify?
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Congratulations, Tullius! Such an ambitious poem and very well executed.