God is dead,
Killed stone cold in our head,
Buried in our hearts,
From which, one time, repentance bled.
An ocean of faith,
Shrinks to a sliver,
No laurels placed, any more,
At divine altar.
God's ceased to breathe,
With fledglings to bereave,
But no devotees to leave,
For him no soul to grieve.
God is dead,
Killed stone cold in our head,
In just the way,
That Nietzche said.