…he is aware that horrors may be in store for him and is praying for the virtues, wherewith to meet them…  

—C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters

Boethius, in prison, wrote a book—
The Consolation of Philosophy—
Explaining how all things can be foreknown
By God from all eternity, and yet
We mortals still possess freedom of will:
All Necessary things are pre-ordained—
The sun comes up, the laws of physics hold—
Contingent things are left to all of us.
The trouble is, it’s very hard to know,
Sometimes, which one is which. Is the death of
Democracy inexorable as the tide?
Why kick against the goads if there’s no point?

You can’t hold back the tide? Shore up your nook!
Feed, clothe, give shelter, offer sanctuary,
Donate or demonstrate. If all lights shone,
If every Who in Whoville yopped, then bet:
The rough beast, slouching, cannot help but feel
The sting of every grain of sand that stained
Its jaundiced eye with blood, however cold,
Corrosive, stagnant. Stand and make a fuss.
Many will be cut down—some whom we know,
And more whom none have ever heard a breath of.
Dig in your heels like an abducted bride,
And all your frail, contingent gifts anoint.

We still can be, as darkness settles in,
A thousand points of kick em in the shin.