The more I learn about the moving parts that make up our souls, the more I discover that I don't know. We're all singularities, from which no light escapes. Who could plumb our depths but the one who fashioned us, and plunged headlong into Sheol to get us back?
Someone who could see us for who we really are, and know us better than we can know ourselves, and see our awful words and thoughts and actions stretched out on a noxious tapestry, and still suffer hideously so that he could destroy sin and death without destroying us, has to be a being of pure love.
