A tiny island

The body is the ego's idol; the belief in sin made flesh and then projected outward. 

This produces what seems to be a wall of flesh around the mind, keeping it prisoner in a tiny spot of space and time, beholden unto death, and given but an instant in which to sigh and grieve and die in honor of its master.

And this unholy instant seems to be life; an instant of despair, a tiny island of dry sand, bereft of water and set uncertainly upon oblivion.

Here does the Son of God stop briefly by, to offer his devotion to death's idols and then pass on. And here he is more dead than living.

Yet it is also here he makes his choice again between idolatry and love.