My apologies for my overlong hiatus from reviewing Heather MacDonald's screed, or perhaps screech. A veritable avalanche of work is upon me and I am struggling valiantly to dig out from under.
Until my return here is a sample of the dreaded soul-numbing faith-founded sensibility she fears is corrupting our otherwise tame existence. Courtesy of the poet Burns, his A Prayer in the Prospect of Death.
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun --
As something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done --
Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.
Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty steps aside,
Do Thou, All-good - for such Thou art --
In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,
But, Thou art good; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.