We could lubricate the camel. Lather it with so much Vaseline it starts to slip in place. We'd push it downhill, aim its greased momentum at the needle's eye. With enough speed, surely, it would pop through – like lightning through a bottle's open lips.
Stories of the camel would spread far and wide. Hundreds of rich men would seek us. Anxious to realize their metaphorical salvation, they'd keep an eye on Heaven's gate as the camel starts its slide.
moonlight . . .
a stone sinks