The point is: while some like to harp on God's righteousness and holiness, separating those traits from God's graciousness and mercy, as far as I can see it, the various components of God's character are as tangled up and hopelessly inseparable from each other as the souls in Harper's apocalypse. If anything, God's holiness is subject to God's mercy, and God's righteousness submits to God's love. We as a human race are still here. There hasn't been fire yet rained down.
My innards are on the outside, and I don't know how to take the next step. Do I walk forward with them hanging on the outside, or do I try to stitch myself before progressing? Can I do the stitching, or do I have to rely upon the God who ripped me open in the first place to perform surgery? What should I expect of those around me while I'm undergoing this change, while my guts collect dust and dirt? Do I tell them to keep walking—I'll catch up. Do I ask them to wait? Do I let them go altogether? I honestly and sincerely don't know.