Atlas has fallen! hark, O hark! o’erhead
The crack of doom, the supports of the world
Are snapped like reeds beneath Behemoth’s tread.
Our Mother Earth, by storms of chaos whirled,
Reels like a drunken harlot down through space,
By wanton buffets from her orbit hurled.
Unto the lips of an expiring race
The Son holds up the cup of human woes;
The Father sees with coldly sneering face.
When will our crucifixion cease? still flows