Deo nihil impossibile est.
The dance of battle is always played to the same impatient rhythm.
What begins in a surge of violent motion is always reduced to the perfectly still.

Cursed is the ground for thy sake;
In sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life;
Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee;
And thou shalt eat the herb of the field;
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground;
For out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.