When complaint has its basis in the nature of the divine, appealing to justice and mercy and truth, waiting for signs which tarry now yet will come without delay, when complaining stands at the ramparts and waits, and wears as its armour thick faith, then the fig-tree will bud and the olive crop soon will blossom where now it yet fails. But you, indomitable Jonah, beneath your angry shade, are more my mirror. Grace frustrates you and you fly against its Ninevah-bound commands, to Tarshish, pride wounded, rebellion grounded in the soil of shame, and wearing the armour of Self. Then the palm-tree withers and the worm consumes the shelter of deflected guilt. Better be Habakkuk, waiting with truth, waiting expectant; better hope, trust and complain in the same breath: for hope grows where doubt cannot fester and worms eat at the dawn. Better confess first then obey in truth, than obey with scaly skin and forked tongue (turning fists inwardly to the sky); better to trust with the rigour of grace.