The grief of death paints my abode—streets and structures—pale and decrepit. Nothing of earth surpasses its power; I have seen no mere man pierce to true light beyond this affixed shadow. Firm is death’s power to dominate humankind. 

The godly are the God-ward—and faced there, they know they are not like what they see. They are not righteous in all their ways; they are not naturally near to the truth; not able to save, able to endure, able to abound in a perfection of goodness and greatness, able to act with self-generated and -sustained power, able to count stars beyond stars, able to reduce rulers to naught or view earth and all therein from on high, with a glance, and weigh it as a piece of dust, a sliver of grass—as nothing.