On a new home world, off, very far into the bright forest, one knelt alone, drawing a long, as it were, single soul-thought bow across his two-cello benedictus of thanks, while his mind sobbed heart-notes out of the emotional depths of his hallowed new creation. Away, in the New City, even amidst the unnumbered singers in and around the golden walls of God, winged beings heard this alone, crying. All seemed to stop their own joys to listen till he finished his double-harped song of deliverance. It appeared fitting that all Heaven should quiet—like a pond quiets—till this joy-praise was over; for thereafter, they knew there would never be heard anymore sobs throughout the eternity that had been awarded to this one, who having exchanged his little faith for the lifting cross of the Son of God, now humbled down himself with gratitude, and was satisfied.
(Lifting Cross= the gladness of the parousia.)
My similar article: The Weeping Traveler https://www.faithwriters.com/article-details.php?id=201191