In its inexorable flux the personality of the infinite creates and knows more. And this knowing bears a price, even of the divine. The acknowledgement that its intimates are becoming grist to afford the boast, “Behold! I make all things new again!”
Man’s increase in knowing reflects this quandary. The sadness of loss tempering the thrill of knowledge gained.
Perhaps sadness is too sentimental, eschewed in the fierceness of divine action. It is more a grave acknowledgement of the vagary of being that one hears in the lawgiver’s declaration, “I am that I am.”
But to whence are the former intimates dispatched? All to places in a sky of their own custom, in weirdly embroidered raiment about their newly robust bodies, formed over millennia by the utterance of each compassionate syllable driven to God. Such is the bounty of Light.
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