What Mystery Is This?

I've little time to write, but when the inspiration is perceived I cannot refuse composition.

I am agnostic. That designation, of course, fails to fully describe me. But it is a sufficient signifier to act as a referent for my metaphysical assent. Why is it then that, despite my inability to believe fully, I have of late felt an overwhelming presence of grace, of gratitude, of compassion, of love? I find myself weeping, sometimes uncontrollably, at even a hint of beauty or humility that happens upon me.

Beyond that, there is a deep, dark cloud of righteousness that hovers over me, obscuring even, at times, my eyes. I cannot escape it. (I know this sentence makes little sense. I am describing the affective, not the cognitive.)

Who will deliver me from God? I am terrified. In fact, I am so overcome by it even now that I cannot write more. It's too much.