Losing

The daemon chuckled, sitting down. "So ... this world, huh?" The angel said nothing. "Easiest gig in the universe; just sit around and let everyone turn on each other. It's the monkey way!" Still the angel said nothing. "I mean, sorry you're on the losing side ... of humanity, of course," it teased (as was its way). The angel turned and there, in the divine face, was every beautiful moment that had existed in every life in every age of mankind ... the miraculous moments of love and forgiveness and celebration and trust and hope ... all of it, with tears cutting through like diamond daggers on glass. It was the face of G-d and Allah and Spirit and every name the force of creation had ever been called in such sorrow as to be all-consuming and to be, in itself, a world without end. "Hate is the losing side," the angel managed to choke whisper (before it turned away), "and that will never change." The daemon shrunk back in horror, knowing deep within itself that the light ... even now, even with this ... would call all grace to itself and start again; indeed, it had already begun.