One of the most powerful pieces of prose that I have read in a long time is a little playlet entitled: "The Long Silence." Listen to it:

"At the end of time, billions of people were scattered on a great plain before God's throne.

Most shrank back from the brilliant light before them, but some groups near the front talked heatedly not with cringing shame, but with belligerence.

‘Can God judge us? How can He know about suffering?' snapped a pert young brunette. She ripped open a sleeve to reveal a tattooed number from a Nazi Concentration Camp. "We endured terror...beatings...torture...death!'

In another group a negro boy lowered his collar. ‘What about this?' he demanded, showing an ugly rope burn: ‘Lynched...for no crime but being black!'

In another crowd a pregnant school girl with s…