George MacDonald has no difficulty finding the trapdoor at the bottom of your intellect. He opens it and walks into a darkness you never knew existed. He goes down into the blackness as a matter of course, as if simply going home. Each step, not hesitant and inching, but familiar of the way. His voice, an un-wavering torch. No change in pitch or pace, steady in its joys and sorrows as he descends to his work far below you. He walks easily from this dimness to that utter darkness—for his light is God’s light, and is bright enough for all. And he is unashamed of any place where light may shine.
I am floored by several passages, and in this one he builds to a crescendo at his description of God’s prison. And my thought was, “I know that place.”