Threshold by R. S. Thomas : The Poetry Foundation.
I emerge from the mind’s cave into the worse darkness outside, where things pass and the Lord is in none of them. I have heard the still, small voice and it was that of the bacteria demolishing my cosmos. I have lingered too long on this threshold, but where can I go? …
What to do but, like Michelangelo’s Adam, put my hand out into unknown space, hoping for the reciprocating touch?
This gets to my problem. All of my still, small voices are shrieking in terror about the many horrible ways we might die. The threshold I struggle to cross is the question of whether a friend who stands by while you die can really be considered a trustworthy friend.