The tender, perceptive heart you mentioned finds its true home here—not in self-protection or despair, but in the fierce tenderness of a God who hears every cry and judges rightly. This is precisely why I have written at length about the distinction between impersonal goals—like systemic triumphs or material success—and genuine personal relationships. We are not here primarily for wealth, fame, or societal victories; we are here for people—first and foremost. The saints of old understood this well; they lived in times before copyright protections or the convenience of modern publishing, pouring out their lives rather than safeguarding their words for personal gain. I am not outright condemning modern systems—there’s room for appreciation there—but perhaps we should also honor the tension between universalist ideals and the biblical imprecations. Those earlier believers braved dangerous waters for their communities—not out of performative virtue or superficial piety, but because they glimpsed beyond the horizon of this world into eternity. Private imprecatory prayers, far from being acts of revenge or curses, become pathways to deeper freedom: the freedom to feel the weight of sin—our own and others’—without falling into despair, and to taste divine love with sharp clarity. I’m not attempting to criticize or condemn the frameworks we currently use—my intention is simply to observe that they often lack the necessary foresight and depth. When we shift our focus away from a close, personal communion with God toward impersonal agendas or institutional priorities, we risk missing out on much of the true joy that comes from knowing Him intimately. This joy includes marveling at His justice and mercy, recognizing His unique ability to execute vengeance rightly, and experiencing the freedom that comes from entrusting all wickedness—whether ours or others’—to His righteous judgment. Spiritually, this reveals a profound truth about the life of the redeemed: the soul that dares to pray through the full range of the Psalms—expressing lament, praise, and imprecation—finds itself in a imaginal space, a threshold between two worlds. It ventures beyond society’s illusions—its false sense of peace, superficial appearances—and dwells in a heavenly realm where justice and mercy are perfectly balanced and harmonized. Ultimately, as David exemplifies in his psalms, these prayers are not acts of vengeance but acts of surrender—entrusting justice into the hands of the Sovereign. In making that act of surrender, the soul recognizes its true allegiance does not belong to this fractured world but to the One who makes all things new—one encounter with Him at a time. As you know well, I have often engaged with those who recoil at the idea of privately uttering curses against the wicked—some even warn that praying these Psalms might invite curses upon oneself. (Feel free to laugh if you find that amusing.) Yet, anyone who has truly dwell within the Psalms understands that these imprecations reveal much about the true nature of certain religious systems. One of my greatest frustrations is witnessing how our collective turning away from God's truth has led to bitter fruit. Never before in my lifetime has universalism been broadcast so loudly and persistently, filling the airwaves with its seductive siren song—more so now than ever before. Ironically, this quiet radicalism—entrusting vengeance entirely to divine justice—bestows a supernatural grace that allows us to embrace sinners in ways that outwardly “accepting” communities often cannot. It echoes the warnings of false prophets whose first words were always “peace, peace,” yet beneath their shallow tolerance, they harbored the deepest prejudices. The truth embedded in Scripture is so fundamentally opposed to fallen human nature that no religious system—no matter how polished or appealing—can domesticate it into worldly success. God designed it this way: our primary task must be to listen to Him first, then to delight in Him—one person at a time, in intimate, personal communion.