He

She stood there, oblivious to the crowd passing by her.It was appropriate to weep, she thinks, but her tears was very much refrained.It was not done consciously, but with every reasoning she has in herself, she realised she never really knew him.

She shifts her sight alternatively between the wooden frame cercueil and his face, which is lacking in colour and emotion.He's no longer what he was,and that sight of him at rest seems almost unfamilliar to her.Cold and almost intangible.

And then her mind seemed wholly taken by the reminiscence of the past.

That even though all must have a designer, but he, just exist.

That his truth is too great for her.And hence the crux is not reasoning, but love.

That all that is good is done for his glory, and if otherwise, so that his love is displayed.

That what her forefather has done, is cursed, and she, also, as a consequence.

That she is cursed if she know not him, even if she lives piously.

That his anger, which was evidently brute to her, was love.

That he loves so much of this world, that his one and only son, was begotten.

That he was personal, there, listening, responding to her.

That he was three, but one.And three.

That those who have not seen, and believed, are blessed.

And then she looked at him again.He was there no more.