A Strange Hymn Quotes

That pretty-boy king went down like a boner in church.

I would steal the stars from the sky for you

We are all like the bright moon, we still have our darker side.” —Kahlil Gibran

He can’t be bad, he can’t. We might both be fucked up, and sure, Des has killed a few people, but he can’t be evil—more like … Wicked Lite.

I am the darkness, his eyes seem to say, and you are my lovely nightmare. And no one will take this away from us.

He tastes like fairy wine and dirty thoughts.

That’s what happens when you discover you have a soulmate. The fear of a lifetime of loneliness evaporates.

We are lovers and old friends and strangers all at once.

Rather than making lemonade out of lemons, I’m pretty much cutting open those lemons and squeezing them into my eyes.

It feels like I’ve just conceded a little bit of my soul. But Des has been collecting pieces of my soul since the night I took my father’s life. As far as I’m concerned, he can have it; I know he’ll take good care of it. Des’s

I pull away from her. “I can’t believe you blew up a portal to the Otherworld.” “Bitch, that’s just called making an entrance.

All morning, Spence has been a well-oiled machine of activity. Everyone doing her bit, quietly and efficiently. It's strange how deliberate people are after a death. All the indecision suddenly vanishes into clear, defined moments--changing the linens, choosing a dress or a hymn, the washing up, the muttering of prayers. All the small, simple, conscious acts of living a sudden defense against the dying we do every day.

My eyes slit. “Des,” I warn. He removes my hand from his chest. “Is that supposed to be a threatening tone?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He clucks his tongue and brings my hand up to his mouth. “Because if it is,” he continues, “then you’ve got to work on your intimidation game,” he continues. “I mean, you gave it a decent try, but I’m more turned on than anything else.” Des

It's strange how deliberate people are after a death. All the indecision suddenly vanishes into clear, defined moments - changing the linens, choosing a dress or a hymn, the washing up, the muttering of prayers. All the small, simple, conscious acts of living a sudden defense against the dying we do every day.

You don't need to control her, cherub. You are the Night King's mate. We represent all deeds better done in the dark.

I would steal the stars from the sky for you,” he whispers into my ear. “Anything to hear you laugh like that.

Fun my ass. The only thing remotely pleasant about this experience is that Des is wearing an Iron Maiden shirt, his tattoos are on full display, and his leather pants are hugging the shit out of his backside. I mean, I can be mad at him and still enjoy the view. Over

Seven years apart," he continues, "and the woman you became was a world away from the girl I met". He tilts my head so that he can look me in the eye. "That only made me want you more. You were both old and new, familiar and exotic, within reach and forbidden. And I wanted you so badly for so long I was sure it would kill me. "And when I look at you - especially now - I see one simple truth." He stops speaking. I sit up a little. "What was the truth?" In the darkness, I can see him staring back down at me. "You are magic, love.

Oh God, I’m fucked. So, so fucked. This isn’t flying, this is the art of dying, and the one person who got me into this mess is gone. I guess I now have my answer to that stupid “rhetorical” question: if a friend asked you to jump, would you? Apparently, twat-waffle that I am, I would.

You were everything I never knew I wanted. You were chaos. You were desperation. You were the most mysterious secret I’d ever come across. Everything about you drew me in—your innocence, your vulnerability, hell, even your tragic life. You were the most captivating creature I’d ever come across.

Our life contains a thousand springs, And dies if one be gone. Strange that a harp of thousand strings Should keep in tune so long.

Solstice expectations: everyone shall set aside their quarrels for this week, hold hands, and sing kumbaya. Solstice reality: everyone shall come within an inch of death at least once.

In all directions, wings are unfurling, each more beautiful than the last. They shimmer in all sorts of colors, and it would be breathtaking if it didn’t mean that hundreds of fairies were losing their shit. The

All of this while I left lifted by a strange new medium, a strange element--I now tell you that I was newly buoyant in a brighter life. In the midst of a hymn, God had disappeared. It was like waking from a nightmare in which I'd been paralyzed. Like discovering that gravity itself had been only a bad dream.

There is nothing that defangs a woman quite like being called beautiful,

I was lonely—painfully, achingly lonely, the kind of loneliness that comes from feeling like your life is passing you by and there’s no one there to witness it.

I’ll say this for the Bargainer,” Temper says, “he throws a mean right hook. That pretty-boy king went down like a boner in church.

I don’t like being teased, manipulated. I like doing the teasing and the manipulating.

You were everything I never knew I wanted. You were chaos. You were desperation. You were the most mysterious secret I’d ever come across.

Mighty Nyx came, Mighty Nyx sought, All that he could, Of his dark lot. In the deep night, His kingdom rose, Beware, great king, Of that which grows. Easy to conquer, Easy to crown, But even the strongest, Can be cut down. Raised in the shadows, Reared in the night, Your child will come, And ascend by might. And you, the slain, Shall wait and see, What other things, A soul can be. A body to curse, A body to blame, A body the earth, Will not yet claim. Beware the mortal, Beneath your sky, Crush the human, Who’ll see you die. Twice you’ll rise, Twice you’ll fall, Lest you can, Change it all. Or perish by day, Perish by dawn, The world believes, You’re already gone. So darken your heart, My shadow king, And let us see, What war will bring. —The Prophecy of Galleghar Nyx

Des’s voice drops low, so that only I can hear it. “Have I told you how easy it was to kill Karnon? His bones broke like twigs, his body burst like overripe fruit.” Des smiles, the action cruel. “Ending him was the easiest thing to do in the world.

Someone should sing, Silver thinks, and then someone does-a low, somewhat hoarse man's voice singing "Amazing Grace" quietly but with great sincerity. Ruben's eyes grow wide, and almost in the same instant that it occurs to Silver that "Amazing Grace" is not sung at Jewish funerals, he recognizes the singing voice as his own. But Mrs. Zeiring is looking at him, not with anger or surprise, but a strange half-smile, and he decides that the only thing worse than spontaneously breaking into a Christian hymn at a Jewish funeral while dressed for a wedding would be to not finish it. So he does...

What horrors of damp huts, where human beings languish, ma not become picturesque through aerial distance? What hymning of cancerous vices may we not languish over as sublimest art in the safe remoteness of a strange language and artificial phrase! Yet we keep a repugnance to rheumatism and other painful effects when presented in our personal experience.

That has my breath catching as I stare up at him. We are lovers and old friends and strangers all at once.

We are all like the bright moon, we still have our darker side.

To take what I want, when I want, and to apologize to no one for it

It’s a strange sensation, letting someone you trust see you bare. It’s frightening and exhilarating all at once.

I guess I now have my answer to that stupid “rhetorical” question: If a friend asked you to jump, would you? Apparently, twat-waffle that I am, I would.

Once he gets to the far side of the bed, his towel drops to the ground, and holy virgins and saints, that backside is everything.

you and I both know monsters aren’t born, they’re nurtured into existence.

Things are much more fun with a little bit of rum,

It’s quite easy to control people once you understand them.

You are magic, love.

She grabs the Bargainer’s lapels. “Where are they?” Mara growls. She shakes him like a madwoman, the floral scent of her power filling the air “Desmond Flynn, where are they?” “What are you talking about?” he says, his voice low. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. I swear to the Undying Gods I will do everything in my power to break our vow of peace if you don’t tell me where my harem is.

What is it?” she asks as she begins undressing. “Nothing.” Temper snorts. “Bitch, we’ve been friends for nearly a decade. Stop beating off the bush—” I wince. “Around, Temper. Beating around the bush.

We get to the end of the block of shops. Here the street opens into a grand plaza. Right in the center of it is a sculpture of a winged couple holding each other in a tight embrace. Only this sculpture floats several feet in the air. I pause in front of it. “Who are they?” I ask, staring at the couple. The woman seems to be made of the same dark stone my beads are, her skin drawing in the light. The man she embraces is made of some shimmering sandstone, his skin seeming to glow from within. “The Lovers,” Des replies. “Two of our ancient gods.” He points to the man. “He’s Fierion, God of Light, and she’s Nyxos, Goddess of Darkness.” Nyxos … why does that name sound familiar? “In the myths,” Des continues, “Fierion was married to Gaya, Goddess of Nature, but his true love was Nyxos, the woman he was forbidden from ever being with. Their love for each other is what causes day to chase night and night to chase day. “Here in the Land of Dreams they’re finally allowed to be with each other.

The Sick Woman begins to see that life is wilder, more chaotic, harsher and more loving, paradoxical, and downright strange than she was ever taught. She discovers for herself the power of moon and the tides, the shifting of the stars and the seasons, the haze of pollen and shift in air pressure and how they impact her dreams, her moods, her body processes. She learns that she is not an independent automaton but a wild being woven of life and death, a chaos of magic, not a machine of logic. She learns that the outer impacts the inner in myriad ways. And vice versa. She learns that she is simultaneously weaker and yet more powerful than she ever knew. She is dangerous with this knowledge which does not appear in the medical books and bibles except as anomalies. She’s singing from the wrong hymn sheet and messing up the patina of perfection that the patriarchy is aiming for. In a display of a million marching soldiers with polished boots, gleaming medals and straight legs, there is the sick woman, bare breasted, hair loose, scars showing, shameless, dancing to her own tune.

Instead, I reach out and run my hand over his wings. He closes his eyes, like he’s savoring the sensation. Getting up, I circle behind him, studying the silvery skin of them as my hand passes over each talon and joint. Beneath my touch, I feel him shiver. His wings stretch in response, the fine veins of them clearly visible even here in the dim lighting. “I always assumed that fairies had butterfly wings,” I admit. “You’re not wrong,” Des says, his back still to me. “Mine are particularly rare.

I have a thousand eyes and even more souls. I am what happens when even darkness dies. Look at me, and see the truth.” I do look at him. I can’t bear to take my eyes off of him. This is the man who has hidden thousands of soldiers and raped thousands more. The Thief of Souls.

Tea at the Palaz of Hoon Not less because in purple I descended The western day through what you called The loneliest air, not less was I myself. What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard? What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears? What was the sea whose tide swept through me there? Out of my mind the golden ointment rained, And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard. I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

Everything is different. In the words of “Amazing Grace”: “I once was lost, but now I am found. Was blind, but now I see.” Yes, I’ve taken to quoting hymns in my head. That’s what Brenna has done to me. It’s terrifying. But I’m strangely happy about being terrified. In short, I’m one messed-up dude.

The Christian church, the Christian form of worship, was not invented by the fathers of the church. It was all taken in a ready-made form from Egypt, only not from the Egypt that we know but from one which we do not know. This Egypt was in the same place as the other but it existed much earlier. Only small bits of it survived in historical times, and these bits have been preserved in secret and so well that we do not even know where they have been preserved. It will seem strange to many people when I say that this prehistoric Egypt was Christian many thousands of years before the birth of Christ, that is to say, that its religion was composed of the same principles and ideas that constitute true Christianity. Special schools existed in this prehistoric Egypt which were called 'schools of repetition.' In these schools a public repetition was given on definite days, and in some schools perhaps even every day, of the entire course in a condensed form of the sciences that could be learned at these schools. Sometimes this repetition lasted a week or a month. Thanks to these repetitions people who had passed through this course did not lose their connection with the school and retained in their memory all they had learned. Sometimes they came from very far away simply in order to listen to the repetition and went away feeling their connection with the school. There were special days of the year when the repetitions were particularly complete, when they were carried out with particular solemnity—and these days themselves possessed a symbolical meaning. These 'schools of repetition' were taken as a model for Christian churches—the form of worship in Christian churches almost entirely represents the course of repetition of the science dealing with the universe and man. Individual prayers, hymns, responses, all had their own meaning in this repetition as well as holidays and all religious symbols, though their meaning has been forgotten long ago.

I cannot put words to the feelings within me on the day we brought her out for burial. It is an odd thing to stand so close to life’s beginning and life’s end. Birth and death are such strange cousins. We carried my mother to the graveyard, shed tears and sang hymns, then returned home, stood over the cradle, smiled, and sang lullabies. . . .

For this village, even were it incomparably more remote and incredibly more primitive, is the West, the West onto which I have been so strangely grafted. These people cannot be, from the point of view of power, strangers anywhere in the world; they have made the modern world, in effect, even if they do not know it. The most illiterate among them is related, in a way that I am not, to Dante, Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Aeschylus, Da Vinci, Rembrandt, and Racine; the cathedral at Chartres says something to them which it cannot say to me, as indeed would New York’s Empire State Building, should anyone here ever see it. Out of their hymns and dances come Beethoven and Bach. Go back a few centuries and they are in their full glory—but I am in Africa, watching the conquerors arrive.

I push away from him, my body crying out at the sudden distance between us. My siren batters against the walls of her cage, and my control on her is slipping. “I’d take you right out here, right where anyone might find us, just as my ancestors used to do.” Jesus, that is dirty. He circles around to the front of me, one side of his mouth curves up. “I would want them to find us, to see me claiming you.

I feel the breath of a hundred different types of magic trying to illuminate the room only to be snuffed out by Des’s power. Along the walls, I hear the sound of plants rustling. It takes several seconds for me to realize that they’re withering, dying. “Before there were plants, before there were animals, before there was even light, there was darkness,” Des says, his voice silky smooth. “From that darkness, all of our deepest desires and most secret fears were born. And I know all of yours. Perhaps I should share them …

What would the poor and lowly do, without children?" said St. Clare, leaning on the railing, and watching Eva, as she tripped off, leading Tom with her. "Your little child is your only true democrat. Tom, now is a hero to Eva; his stories are wonders in her eyes, his songs and Methodist hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and little bits of trash in his pocket a mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful Tom that ever wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of Eden that the Lord has dropped down expressly for the poor and lowly, who get few enough of any other kind." "It's strange, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, "one might almost think you were a professor, to hear you talk.

Hymn to Mercury : Continued 71. Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might Of winning music, to his mightier will; His left hand held the lyre, and in his right The plectrum struck the chords—unconquerable Up from beneath his hand in circling flight The gathering music rose—and sweet as Love The penetrating notes did live and move 72. Within the heart of great Apollo—he Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure. Close to his side stood harping fearlessly The unabashed boy; and to the measure Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure Of his deep song, illustrating the birth Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth: 73. And how to the Immortals every one A portion was assigned of all that is; But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;— And, as each God was born or had begun, He in their order due and fit degrees Sung of his birth and being—and did move Apollo to unutterable love. 74. These words were winged with his swift delight: 'You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you Deserve that fifty oxen should requite Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, One of your secrets I would gladly know, Whether the glorious power you now show forth Was folded up within you at your birth, 75. 'Or whether mortal taught or God inspired The power of unpremeditated song? Many divinest sounds have I admired, The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired, And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong, Yet did I never hear except from thee, Offspring of May, impostor Mercury! 76. 'What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, What exercise of subtlest art, has given Thy songs such power?—for those who hear may choose From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dews Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:— And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow: 77. 'And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise Of song and overflowing poesy; And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly; But never did my inmost soul rejoice In this dear work of youthful revelry As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove; Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. 78. 'Now since thou hast, although so very small, Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,— And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall, Witness between us what I promise here,— That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear, And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee, And even at the end will ne'er deceive thee.' 79. To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:— 'Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: I envy thee no thing I know to teach Even this day:—for both in word and will I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, Who loves thee in the fulness of his love. 80. 'The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude Of his profuse exhaustless treasury; By thee, 'tis said, the depths are understood Of his far voice; by thee the mystery Of all oracular fates,—and the dread mood Of the diviner is breathed up; even I— A child—perceive thy might and majesty.

Something was flickering and swimming exactly on the spot he was looking at, so that he couldn’t see it clearly, though everything around it seemed clear, at least until he moved his gaze to look at something else and the flickery thing moved too. It was always in the way, and he could see nothing behind it. He brushed the page, but there was nothing there. He rubbed his eyes, but it still didn’t go away. In fact, it was even more curious because he could still see it when his eyes were closed. And it was very slowly getting bigger. It wasn’t a spot anymore. It was a line: a curved line, like a loosely scribbled letter C, and it was sparkling and flickering in a zigzag pattern of blacks and whites and silvers. Asta said, “What is it?” “Can you see it?” “I can feel something. What can you see?” He described it as well as he could. “And what can you feel?” he added. “Something strange, like a sort of far-off feeling…as if we’re a long way apart and I can see for miles and everything’s very clear and calm….I’m not afraid of anything, just calm….What’s it doing now?” “Just getting bigger. I can see past it now. It’s getting closer, and I can see the words on the page and everything through the middle of it. It’s making me feel dizzy, a bit. If I try and look at it directly, it slides away. It’s about this big now.” He held out his left hand with the thumb and forefinger curved round, indicating the gap between them to be about as long as the thumb itself. “Are we going blind?” said Asta. “I don’t think so, ’cause I can see perfectly well through it. It’s just getting closer and bigger, but sort of sliding out of the way too, out towards the edge…as if it’s just going to float past and behind my head.” They sat in the quiet little room, in the warm lamplight, and waited until the sparkling line had drifted closer and closer to the edge of his vision, and eventually just beyond it, and then was gone. Altogether, from beginning to end, the experience lasted about twenty minutes. “That was very strange,” he said. “Like spangled. Like that hymn—you remember: And the Hornèd moon at night, ’Mid her spangled sisters bright. It was spangled.” “Was it real?” “Of course it was real. I saw it.” “But I couldn’t see it. It wasn’t outside. It was in you.” “Yeah…but it was real. And you were feeling something. That was real too. So it must be part of it.” “Yeah…I wonder what it means.” “Maybe…I don’t know. Maybe nothing.” “No, it must be something,” she said firmly.

I complain. I’ve barely touched my ravioli, and I plan to eat the crap out of it. I’m a girl who can throw back her food. “Want something to go?” he asks. My lips part, but before I can respond, another churro drops to the table, nearly falling into my ravioli. Now it’s Des’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Looks like someone has a little case of food envy.” I totally do. He made his churro look good.

A thank you would be nice,” he says, following me out. “So would an apology,” I retort over my shoulder.

slip out of Des’s arms, looking around me. “What is this place?” “Barbos, the City of Thieves.” Of course Des rules over an island fondly known as the City of Thieves. We start walking,

Riddle me this:

You are the Night King's mate. We represent all deeds better done in the dark.

With means, if more than a little diminished means, of his own Ethan had done what his father before him, likewise a lawyer, had done, and had once in days past counselled him to do before it was too late, before this might spell an irrevocable retirement. He made a Retreat. (To be sure he had not been bidden so far afield as had his father, who’d spent the last year of peace before the First World War as a legal adviser on international cotton law in Czarist Russia, whence he brought back to his young son in Wales, or so he announced, lifting it whole out of a mysterious deep-Christmas-smelling wooden box, a beautiful toy model of Moscow; a city of tiny magical gold domes, pumpkin- or Christmas-bell-shaped, sparkling with Christmas tinsel-scented snow, bright as new silver half-crowns, and of minuscule Byzantine chimes; and at whose miniature frozen street corners waited minute sleighs, in which Ethan had imagined years later lilliputian Tchitchikovs brooding, or corners where lurked snow-bound Raskolnikovs, their hands stayed from murder evermore: much later still he was to become unsure whether the city, sprouting with snow-freaked onions after all, was intended to be Moscow or St. Petersburg, for part of it seemed in memory built on little piles in the water, like Eridanus; the city coming out of the box he was certain was magic too—for he had never seen it again after that evening of his father’s return, in a strange astrakhan-collared coat and Russian fur cap—the box that was always to be associated also with his mother’s death, which had occurred shortly thereafter; the magic bulbar city going back into the magic scented box forever, and himself too afraid of his father to ask him about it later—though how beautiful for years to him was the word city, the carilloning word city in the Christmas hymn, Once in Royal David’s City, and the tumultuous angel-winged city that was Bunyan’s celestial city; beautiful, that was, until he saw a city—it was London—for the first time, sullen, in fog, and bloodshot as if with the fires of hell, and he had never to this day seen Moscow—so that while this remained in his memory as nearly the only kind action he could recall on the part of either of his parents, if not nearly the only happy memory of his entire childhood, he was constrained to believe the gift had actually been intended for someone else, probably for the son of one of his father’s clients: no, to be sure he hadn’t wandered as far afield as Moscow; nor had he, like his younger brother Gwyn, wanting to go to Newfoundland, set out, because he couldn’t find another ship, recklessly for Archangel; he had not gone into the desert nor to sea himself again or entered a monastery, and moreover he’d taken his wife with him; but retreat it was just the same.)

I relax further, letting the siren loose in a way I rarely do on earth. I begin walking again, an extra sway to my hips, my entire body now glowing. A sinful smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Tonight is going to be fun. So

I clear my throat. “What’s a dream of yours?” I ask, feeling like my skin is lit. He watches me, his body so still I feel like he’s waiting for a moment to strike. Finally he says, “We share similar dreams.” “You want a husband too?” I can’t help but tease him. He flashes me a wolfish smile, choosing that moment to take another—very suggestive—bite of his churro. “Perhaps …” he says, “but you’ll do.” I all but roll my eyes. “I’m thrilled to be your booby prize.

I groan as we walk, rubbing my backside. “Des, I think you broke my ass.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather pants. “Cherub, you’ll be making different moans when I break your ass.” Sweet Lord of heaven and earth. Blood rushes to my face. To my horror, my skin begins to brighten. Bad, siren. Bad. I guffaw. “That will only ever happen in your dreams.” Des stops and catches my jaw in his hand, forcing me to look in his eyes. “You know, the endearing thing about you is that you still say things like that, even though you owe me a wrist full of debt.” His thumb strokes the side of my face. I swallow, not sure if the excitement I feel is from dread or anticipation. He pulls me in close. “Careful with your words, mate,” he says, his voice more serious than before. “I’d gladly take them on as a challenge.

Bleeding trees and missing men. And we haven’t even been here a day yet.

You can cure an illness, not a permanent state of existence.

Always.” It’s less thought than it is instinct. Where my mate goes, I go.

There’s also the fact that most soulmates can feel the bond that connects them to their mate like it’s a physical thing. I place a hand over my heart. I’ve felt no such thing.

He’s my own personal brand of salvation,

I feel him shudder against me as he responds, “Till darkness dies.

I am the darkness, his eyes seem to say, and you are my lovely nightmare.

Callie,” Des says softly, “you and I both know monsters aren’t born, they’re nurtured into existence.

He stares at me like I’m his starlight, and he’s the darkness preparing to devour me.

I hate doomed love stories. Life’s filled with enough heartache as it is.

I guess it’s a stupid question to ask here in the Otherworld, where beauty is a point of fixation and ugliness only ever lurks beneath the surface.

Somewhere along the way I decided that different no longer equaled bad.

He’s my own personal brand of salvation, yet right now I get the impression he’s the one who needs saving.

Can you account for your mate’s whereabouts over the past several evenings?

I make an O with my mouth like that makes some sort of sense to me, when it really doesn’t. Whatever.

He stares at me like I'm his starlight and he's the darkness preparing to devour me.

It may have been only for a moment, it probably was; but I do know the silence was not broken till the aged minister, who stood at the head of the coffin, began his discourse. We stood with uncovered heads during the service, and when the old minister addressed us he spoke as though he might have been holding family worship and we had been his children. He invoked Heaven to comfort and sustain the mother when the news of her son's death reached her, as she would need more than human aid in that hour; he prayed that her faith might not falter and that she might again meet and be with her loved ones forever in the great beyond. He then took up the subject of life,—spoke of its brevity, its many hopes that are never realized, and the disappointments from which no prudence or foresight can shield us. He dwelt at some length on the strange mingling of sunshine and shadow that seemed to belong to every life; on the mystery everywhere, and nowhere more impressively than in ourselves. With his long bony finger he pointed to the cold, mute form that lay in the coffin before us, and said, "But this, my friends, is the mystery of all mysteries." The fact that life terminated in death, he said, only emphasized its reality; that the death of our companion was not an accident, though it was sudden and unexpected; that the difficulties of life are such that it would be worse than folly in us to try to meet them in our own strength. Death, he said, might change, but it did not destroy; that the soul still lived and would live forever; that death was simply the gateway out of time into eternity; and if we were to realize the high aim of our being, we could do so by casting our burdens on Him who was able and willing to carry them for us. He spoke feelingly of the Great Teacher, the lowly Nazarene, who also suffered and died, and he concluded with an eloquent description of the blessed life, the immortality of the soul, and the resurrection of the body. After the discourse was ended and a brief and earnest prayer was covered, the two young girls sang the hymn, "Shall we meet beyond the river?" The services being at an end, the coffin was lowered into the grave.

That’s what happens when you discover you have a soul mate. The fear of a lifetime of loneliness evaporates.

Even though it’s just a myth, the tragedy of it still gets to me. I hate doomed love stories. Life’s filled with enough heartache as it is.

Only in the shadows and dark spaces do we find our truest wishes and deepest desires,

Nothing defangs a woman quite like being called beautiful, my rational mind whispers.

If we played three CDs of praise at the same time, we’d have a cacophony of noise that would drive us crazy. This was totally different. Every sound blended, and each voice or instrument enhanced the others. As strange as it may seem, I could clearly distinguish each song. It sounded as if each hymn of praise was meant for me to hear as I moved inside the gates.

The Genesis account of the advent of mankind (Adam-man) is far more eloquent and significant than a casual reading of the passage in English might suggest. In this majestic “Poem of the Dawn” or “Hymn of Creation” (cf. H. Orton Wiley, Christian Theology, Vol. I, Nazarene Publishing House, Kansas City, Mo., pp. 450 ff.), the metaphorical use of the terms “dust,” “image,” “likeness,” “create,” “made,” “breath of life,” and others, contributes much to biblical understanding of man, sin, redemption, holiness, and all the implications of “grace” in relation to man. The writer of the Genesis story chose his words carefully. In 1:26 he tells us that God said, “Let us make man in our image after our likeness,” and (1:27) then, “God created man in his own image … male and female created he them.” Strangely, the second account (Genesis 2) introduces a most mundane and earthy note to the almost too idealistic and incredible first description. “The Lord God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life [‘lives, ’ Hebrew plural, here]; and man became a living being” (Gen. 2:7; RSV). Note the progress; formed, breathed into, and then the process of becoming. There will be no attempt made here to formulate any theory of man's appearance on earth. These terms are noted to suggest that the wording gives room for more than one interpretation. However, no attempt to interpret these passages from the standpoint of modern science should be permitted to obscure the main ideas proposed in Genesis 1—2. This is not a scientific account nor was it in any sense intended to be. The role of science is to unpack all the facts possible which are built into man and his history and world. But the meaning of man and his universe must be derived from another source. And it is this meaning that the biblical story seeks to impart. This starkly beautiful, unembroidered introduction to man as made in his Creator's image establishes the fundamental religious meaning of man as he stands in relationship to God and to nature. This noble concept must precede and throw light upon all that the Hebraic-Christian teaching will assume about man—a sinful creature as of now, yet created in the Imago Dei.

Bring forth the Urim and Thummim for the confirmation of the word of Yahweh.” Joshua’s eyes went wide with fear. Eleazer reached into his pouch that held the “Lights and Perfections.” He held them before Joshua who had dropped to one knee in reverence. Eleazer said with a loud voice, “Almighty God, Yahweh Elohim, we beseech you to confirm the appointment of Joshua ben Nun as leader of this people!” And then a miracle occurred. The entire congregation went silent. Their muttering and murmuring just suddenly stopped. It was as if they were all holding their breath. They were all holding their breath. A gust of wind seemed to flow over the three prophets alone, blowing their cloaks with ethereal movement. They began to chant a hymn of praise. But their voices sounded strangely divine and in perfect unison, as if they were Bene ha Elohim from the throne of Yahweh. They had become the representative witness for the heavenly host on earth. Eleazer reached in his chest pouch and withdrew the two gemstones. Those in the congregation could not see them for their size, but they could see the light that they produced. They sparkled with the glory of the Lord, and Eleazer said, “Is Joshua your chosen leader for Israel to enter Canaan?” The Lights and Perfections glittered and sparkled until a beam of their light settled on Joshua’s face and he glowed in holy aura. The crowd cheered. The prophets ceased their heavenly praise as one. Joshua looked over to see Caleb watching him with a proud smile.

They are strange trees, palm trees, they are so individualistic, so unique, so full of capriciousness, just as Jews are. One palm tree appears to be six stories high, another a midget. One palm tree is obese, another is emaciated. One palm tree is narrow at the bottom and broad at the top. Another stand bent as if in prayer. A palm tree clothed in elegant bark reminds one of a pineapple. And a tree with unsalvageable, shredded barks appears to be dressed in rags like a village idiot.Palm trees don't have leaves, they have lulav's (palm branches used on the holiday of Succot). When the lulavs shake in the wind you remember the Jews of old shaking the lulavs to hymns of praise, halleluyahs, and hosannas. Can you believe they are trees like all other trees? No, they're not simply trees, they are Jews who have been transformed into trees and who have to shake lulavs for tens or hundreds of years for past sins.

A Hymn I sang When I Found You (Poem) ****** You opened your arms to me and my eyes to see. You embraced me like your own. In your soul, You covered me with strength. You opened my life with your breath. Your comfort embraces my heart like what paint is to art, and jokes are to comedy, and religion is to a prophecy, and guitars are to music. Importantly, you adorn me as artists do to the muse. You swallowed me with your mind. Sewn my broken pieces back into one, and loved me throughout your research. Like what members are to the church, and grapes are to wine, and mud is to a swine. I was lost, Now, I'm perfectly found at most. In your love, I'm pulled. Complete and full without a piece amiss. I'm washed with plenty a kiss. A perfect melody! Long gone are the days of melancholy. Because no strange songs are sung. You pierce into me like the sun and comfort me like charms. Mostly, you sing me a lullaby in your arms.

You and I both know monsters aren't born, they're nurtured into existence.

Ill-fated mothers, cruel fathers, and friendless childhoods. You and I, cherub, really do share similar tragedies.

Our relationship was forged on bloodshed and solidified through deception. I am the dark creature that craves sex and destruction, and he is the king of it.

What does being lovely have to do with anything?” I say, distracted. I guess it’s a stupid question to ask here in the Otherworld, where beauty is a point of fixation and ugliness only ever lurks beneath the surface.

Who do I have to cunt punch for a little room? Move!

Sometimes people do atrocious things just because they can.