The mess.

Those words sting more than you'll ever know. Tearing others down with such ease and ignorance. With not a hint of pride, nor of approval.

How juvenile it is to seek such, But what a hole it leaves. 

There is no pride to be taken in anything.
Everything you know about me, they become liabilities, jests of sorts, wounds you pinch.
Holiness has never sounded more hypocritical. Righteousness, never more detestable.

Immature fool committing such insecure folly.
Who would leave value in rough, unfeeling hands? Base infinite worth on callous carelessness?

You fool.

It is here that rebellion grows its tainted roots, where stumbling blocks are built. Sturdy ones to be sure, but it is also here that values are defined, developing skills that take time and practice. But for the promise of a God who has never failed and will never fails, perfection is a mere puff of hopeless idealism.

Perfection and restoration. Promises to live by.