But real life isn’t like that.
Its rains on the righteous as well as the unrighteous, regardless of whether or not they lied when they were 17.
When one confronts a liar and a bully, perhaps it is to be anticipated that they might lie and bully more in order to deceive and deflect, because one knows the identity of the Father of Lies, and he is an adversary of formidable capacities. The personal costs – emotional as well as material – may be understood intellectually, but they are scarcely comprehensible or even recognisable de profundis. One may, like Job, bewail the day one was born and seek to crawl back into the heavenly security of the womb. But even the womb is no longer a refuge: indeed, it has become the principal place of mass murder. One may lament from the depths of Sheol, like the psalmist, and in deep sorrow and misery cry to God and ask for mercy. The psalmist may trust in God, but the anguish of the pit is unbearable.
The depths of despair are deeper than the ocean, and the black void is a taste of death.
His Grace is not sure that he has the strength to continue or the will to live, if, indeed, his ashes could be said to have ever re-lived in a corporeal sense at all. He needs to spend some time in the company of Beethoven: his Sonata Op 106 in B Flat Major is already playing. Vivat, vivat. If His Grace again returns to the earth in dust, he thanks his loyal readers and communicants for their congenial fellowship over these years, and he prays God’s richest blessings upon you all sincerely.