A Letter to God

A letter to God, who in Heaven dwells:

From men, whom thine very own creative hand has done on earth, to subdue, confuse and recreate the order that in the beginning was. For we well consider that his destructive ploys on your good must have well pre-occurred to you before you ever laid hand on clay, you being altogether omniscient, neither restricted in power nor in revelation to maneuver such evil as occurs in such times as it thinks itself unchecked. Such a day as of crucifixion of Jesus became us, that our burdens, being bundled together, may be fittingly lifted. Such a day became us that the sorrows of life, the billowing storms in our hearts and the groans of the saints away may be put. I thank you for dressing our conscience with expectation, the end of which your pure glory to us is. Grateful I stand, of the occasions of human sloth avidly spiteful, and of the grandiose aptitude in opportunism the more appreciative.

I ascend my worthy-ship to-you-ward, aware that frail hands in disharmony with the slightly less rhythmic heartbeat fall short of your just due. This my heart now trembles in such turbulence for sure. Yet I won't afford to withhold before your transforming will that animation fully characteristic of academic and scholastic rigidity to which as to a master I am become a slave. God, is it true that the stoics are at all positivists representative of your true virtue? For the pursuit of their enlightenment threatens me! Did you plan it so, that the implication of "can" was scheduled to obligate "be"; rather, must all that we can relate proportionately to all that we do? Just because we "should" be indifferent in majority occasions of life, dear God, are we consequently bound as if under an oath to keep indifferent all our days and in the entirety of implications? Are we ever drawn closer to the reality of choice in the path of life, for I mourn now on the graveyard of conscious choice in life. God, barely, actually never once in my knowledge, has man won a duel against you, saving an isolated case where both that glory and name that are essentially your very self were for a moment assumed; yet I bequeath myself such zeal and urge as to desire to know what the supernatural understands of the natural. I dare not pretend to speak on behalf of any other, accounting my meagre petition as the evidence of idleness, yet as I have known you, you'll still answer! I honour your very nature by which you often stoop down to consider such vain sprees as all men are fond of.

All men who after the image of God are made lend themselves to the disfiguration of what at best is and to the toppling of the order that as it is impresses you enough. Yet your trump and pardon have trailed so closely down the ages like the wagon behind a tram. You don't seem scathed by any of the conditions that the negligent and usurping hobbies of our own cast the chord here-between into. I hear them say that with you the bread is always ready. God, as with all men, the billowing torrents of anti-stoicism are now come over me, drawing every bit of reason beyond threshold leaving a tumultuous aura both in and around. The order of life, as it stands, stands on its terminal legs. So with one question I wrote to you: God and Lord, over all mortals supremely sovereign, could you please lend us, even if for a moment, just a primitive taste of the future? That future, which in essence draws to bear that value and virtue which may be lost or brought forth, both by absolute fate and by guided fate, that men may mark out the boundary of benevolent fate from ill-fated fate. Learning and experience have caused me to consider at length such juxtapositions. It seems to me like the race for soulmates; some by a convention avail something and others by innovation avail more. It then appears from where we stand, O Righteous Judge, as though the flipside of nature's condition is already known to a section of it and so seemingly unfairly; but be it far from me that, in writing a heaven-bound script in the language of earth, I should be judged by the angelic metric-for then should my folly not find a respite at all before thee. And I'm finished.

All humans, who on earth sojourn, like stars rise and set; but trails they leave behind in the skies, as scars on a virgin skin. Well, some draw trenches and others synthetic scratches, but everyone searches for means withal to travel farthest leaving the deepest dig. Is it, of all men, the grand pursuit you've ordained? Aren't you, to whom our bounds never unknown be, mindful that we run and lead astray in a minute; aren't you mindful that we, honestly seeking the way, have stumbled on the highway to vanity! Please God, by the ministry of all members of the eternal family who in Heaven abide to now, lift from us the cloud of delusion, that lurching on each other at this fascinating speed we may not exterminate our own posterity. God, mind you, the most destructive tool for humanity is now ready for the hurling, don't allow us to end our own lifestory any more tragically. As you can see, enough needles are planted in the sand, where counting on your benevolence to go yonder, our current focus must trudge. It's in such a day that by your benevolent righteousness you may grand the full measure of grace unlimited. Fear of the future enslaves, and so by irrevocable chains. It's like a love story with a serpent which frightens even the orator! On behalf of my very self at least, and that of many others in fact, may heaven consider opening a window into the future, that by obtaining a feel all men may commit. For uncertainty must now and unanimously be awarded as the progeny of ill-fated guesswork about the future, and sadly the outcome of which is impotence. I fully believe that heaven, in extension of her goodwill and pleasure in those matters benevolence, will look upon the sons of men favourably, even if by a wee bit. It suffices, and we remain content with the least granted.

Yours in worship,

SILA (on behalf of all of them)

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