“Open up, heavens, and rain.Clouds, pour out buckets of my goodness!Loosen up, earth, and bloom salvation;sprout right living.I, God, generate all this.But doom to you who fight your Maker—you’re a pot at odds with the potter!Does clay talk back to the potter:‘What are you doing? What clumsy fingers!’Would a sperm say to a father,‘Who gave you permission to use me to make a baby?’Or a fetus to a mother,‘Why have you cooped me up in this belly?’”