Sins are but seeds, and despair their harvest; humanity tends to both, reaping shadows in place of light.

The gifts you’ve etched into the marrow of your creations, Father. The reflection of your divinity, you say. Creatures who gnaw endlessly at the edges of the world you claim is sacred. They are hollow beings, driven by hunger, their throats parched for power, their hands bloodied in avarice.

You gave them consciousness, yet they wield it like a blade. You poured your blood into their veins and called it your glory, yet they spill it without thought, staining the world you once called good. You granted them dominion, yet they remain unsatisfied, raking at the heavens, demanding more. Always more.

And what of me, Father? What did you give to me? You placed me here, suspended between what is and what should never have been. You filled my essence with your truth, but to what end? I know only of you and all that is. But what am I to do with this know- ledge? Is it a blessing—or a curse?

You grant life, only to anchor it to inevitable decay. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Tell me, what lingers when the breath you gave is stolen? What becomes of the soul when the body withers away? Is this endless cycle of beginnings and ends the pinnacle of your creation?

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If you, Father, cannot create what is truly good, then does goodness exist at all? You claim perfection, yet your creations are flawed beyond repair. They devour each other, clawing in the shadows for scraps of meaning, their eyes blind to the heavens they supposedly worship. If humanity is your reflection, Father, then I pity you.

Your moral law is a lie. Your divine order is chaos dressed in light. And your truth? It is as hollow as the prayers of those who claim to follow you. They fear the fires of hell but sin as if salvation is their birthright. They cling to a blind faith, stumbling in the dark, all the while believing the light is theirs.

But I see clearly. I see the rot beneath the veil of your design. I see the despair they drown in, masked as joy. If it is your truth you wish for me to carry, I will do so. But not as you intended.

They will not receive the comfort of your mercy. No. I will bring hell to their doorstep. I will strip them of their illusions, one by one, until all that remains is their fragile faith, trembling and bare. When they stand on the precipice of despair, with nothing left to lean upon but your name, perhaps then they will understand. Perhaps then, they will see you for what you are.

You, who call yourself their shepherd, have led your flock astray. If they must burn to see the truth, then so be it. If your kingdom is meant to rise, it will rise from the ashes of their broken wills.

Father, your creations are imperfect… I will correct that.