No Weapon Formed Against Me Quotes

You think man can destroy the planet? What intoxicating vanity. Let me tell you about our planet. Earth is four-and-a-half-billion-years-old. There's been life on it for nearly that long, 3.8 billion years. Bacteria first; later the first multicellular life, then the first complex creatures in the sea, on the land. Then finally the great sweeping ages of animals, the amphibians, the dinosaurs, at last the mammals, each one enduring millions on millions of years, great dynasties of creatures rising, flourishing, dying away -- all this against a background of continuous and violent upheaval. Mountain ranges thrust up, eroded away, cometary impacts, volcano eruptions, oceans rising and falling, whole continents moving, an endless, constant, violent change, colliding, buckling to make mountains over millions of years. Earth has survived everything in its time. It will certainly survive us. If all the nuclear weapons in the world went off at once and all the plants, all the animals died and the earth was sizzling hot for a hundred thousand years, life would survive, somewhere: under the soil, frozen in Arctic ice. Sooner or later, when the planet was no longer inhospitable, life would spread again. The evolutionary process would begin again. It might take a few billion years for life to regain its present variety. Of course, it would be very different from what it is now, but the earth would survive our folly, only we would not. If the ozone layer gets thinner, ultraviolet radiation sears the earth, so what? Ultraviolet radiation is good for life. It's powerful energy. It promotes mutation, change. Many forms of life will thrive with more UV radiation. Many others will die out. Do you think this is the first time that's happened? Think about oxygen. Necessary for life now, but oxygen is actually a metabolic poison, a corrosive glass, like fluorine. When oxygen was first produced as a waste product by certain plant cells some three billion years ago, it created a crisis for all other life on earth. Those plants were polluting the environment, exhaling a lethal gas. Earth eventually had an atmosphere incompatible with life. Nevertheless, life on earth took care of itself. In the thinking of the human being a hundred years is a long time. A hundred years ago we didn't have cars, airplanes, computers or vaccines. It was a whole different world, but to the earth, a hundred years is nothing. A million years is nothing. This planet lives and breathes on a much vaster scale. We can't imagine its slow and powerful rhythms, and we haven't got the humility to try. We've been residents here for the blink of an eye. If we're gone tomorrow, the earth will not miss us.

No weapon that is formed against me shall prosper, and every tongue which rises against me in judgment I do condemn. This is my heritage as a servant of the Lord, and my righteousness is from You, O Lord of Hosts.

If you need anything, come to me. And if I ain’t got it, we’ll find a way to get it. I don’t like other muthafuckas in my mix. Me and you…we’re one. Ain’t no outsiders in this. Nobody. As long as we’re down for each other, no weapons formed against us shall prosper.

No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and their righteousness is of me, saith the LORD.

I make decrees over my family every day. I speak blessings over my family every day. I declare things from God’s word over my family every day. Things like,… … As for me and my house we will serve the Lord. (Joshua 24:15) No weapon formed against us shall prosper…. (Isaiah 54:17) He has given His angels charge over us… (Psalms 91:11) Angels listen for God’s word to perform it. And they do. The Bible says Thou shalt also decree a thing and it shall be established unto thee, and light shall shine upon thy ways. (Job 22:28) There is power in your decree and in your agreement with this word of the Lord. If you decree on the authority of the Word that your eyes will open and see clearly, it will come to pass. The Lord is not a man that He should lie, nor the son of man that He should repent. If He said it, will He not do it? (Numbers 23:19)

was emotionally true because I had already grown to feel that there existed men against whom I was powerless, men who could violate my life at will. I resolved that I would emulate the black woman if I were ever faced with a white mob; I would conceal a weapon, pretend that I had been crushed by the wrong done to one of my loved ones; then, just when they thought I had accepted their cruelty as the law of my life, I would let go with my gun and kill as many of them as possible before they killed me. The story of the woman’s deception gave form and meaning to confused defensive feelings that had long been sleeping in me. My imaginings, of course, had no objective

Asking a writer why they like to write {in the theoretical sense of the question} is like asking a person why they breathe. For me, writing is a natural reflex to the beauty, the events, and the people I see around me. As Anais Nin put it, "We write to taste life twice." I live and then I write. The one transfers to the other, for me, in a gentle, necessary way. As prosaic as it sounds, I believe I process by writing. Part of the way I deal with stressful situations, catty people, or great joy or great trials in my own life is by conjuring it onto paper in some way; a journal entry, a blog post, my writing notebook, or my latest story. While I am a fair conversationalist, my real forte is expressing myself in words on paper. If I leave it all chasing round my head like rabbits in a warren, I'm apt to become a bug-bear to live with and my family would not thank me. Some people need counselors. Some people need long, drawn-out phone-calls with a trusted friend. Some people need to go out for a run. I need to get away to a quiet, lonesome corner--preferably on the front steps at gloaming with the North Star trembling against the darkening blue. I need to set my pen fiercely against the page {for at such moments I must be writing--not typing.} and I need to convert the stress or excitement or happiness into something to be shared with another person. The beauty of the relationship between reading and writing is its give-and-take dynamic. For years I gathered and read every book in the near vicinity and absorbed tale upon tale, story upon story, adventures and sagas and dramas and classics. I fed my fancy, my tastes, and my ideas upon good books and thus those aspects of myself grew up to be none too shabby. When I began to employ my fancy, tastes, and ideas in writing my own books, the dawning of a strange and wonderful idea tinged the horizon of thought with blush-rose colors: If I persisted and worked hard and poured myself into the craft, I could create one of those books. One of the heart-books that foster a love of reading and even writing in another person somewhere. I could have a hand in forming another person's mind. A great responsibility and a great privilege that, and one I would love to be a party to. Books can change a person. I am a firm believer in that. I cannot tell you how many sentiments or noble ideas or parts of my own personality are woven from threads of things I've read over the years. I hoard quotations and shadows of quotations and general impressions of books like a tzar of Russia hoards his icy treasures. They make up a large part of who I am. I think it's worth saying again: books can change a person. For better or for worse. As a writer it's my two-edged gift to be able to slay or heal where I will. It's my responsibility to wield that weapon aright and do only good with my words. Or only purposeful cutting. I am not set against the surgeon's method of butchery--the nicking of a person's spirit, the rubbing in of a salty, stinging salve, and the ultimate healing-over of that wound that makes for a healthier person in the end. It's the bitter herbs that heal the best, so now and again you might be called upon to write something with more cayenne than honey about it. But the end must be good. We cannot let the Light fade from our words.

Because it wasn’t enough to be accompanied by the beast who scared the crap out of every god in Heaven, Xuanzang was assigned a few more traveling companions. The gluttonous pig-man Zhu Baijie. Sha Wujing, the repentant sand demon. And the Dragon Prince of the West Sea, who took the form of a horse for Xuanzang to ride. The five adventurers, thusly gathered, set off on their— “Holy ballsacks!” I yelped. I dropped the book like I’d been bitten. “How far did you get?” Quentin said. He was leaning against the end of the nearest shelf, as casually as if he’d been there the whole time, waiting for this moment. I ignored that he’d snuck up on me again, just this once. There was a bigger issue at play. In the book was an illustration of the group done up in bold lines and bright colors. There was Sun Wukong at the front, dressed in a beggar’s cassock, holding his Ruyi Jingu Bang in one hand and the reins of the Dragon Horse in the other. A scary-looking pig-faced man and a wide-eyed demon monk followed, carrying the luggage. And perched on top of the horse was . . . me. The artist had tried to give Xuanzang delicate, beatific features and ended up with a rather girly face. By whatever coincidence, the drawing of Sun Wukong’s old master could have been a rough caricature of sixteen-year-old Eugenia Lo from Santa Firenza, California. “That’s who you think I am?” I said to Quentin. “That’s who I know you are,” he answered. “My dearest friend. My boon companion. You’ve reincarnated into such a different form, but I’d recognize you anywhere. Your spiritual energies are unmistakable.” “Are you sure? If you’re from a long time ago, maybe your memory’s a little fuzzy.” “The realms beyond Earth exist on a different time scale,” Quentin said. “Only one day among the gods passes for every human year. To me, you haven’t been gone long. Months, not centuries.” “This is just . . . I don’t know.” I took a moment to assemble my words. “You can’t walk up to me and expect me to believe right away that I’m the reincarnation of some legendary monk from a folk tale.” “Wait, what?” Quentin squinted at me in confusion. “I said you can’t expect me to go, ‘okay, I’m Xuanzang,’ just because you tell me so.” Quentin’s mouth opened slowly like the dawning of the sun. His face went from confusion to understanding to horror and then finally to laughter. “mmmmphhhhghAHAHAHAHA!” he roared. He nearly toppled over, trying to hold his sides in. “HAHAHAHA!” “What the hell is so funny?” “You,” Quentin said through his giggles. “You’re not Xuanzang. Xuanzang was meek and mild. A friend to all living things. You think that sounds like you?” It did not. But then again I wasn’t the one trying to make a case here. “Xuanzang was delicate like a chrysanthemum.” Quentin was getting a kick out of this. “You are so tough you snapped the battleaxe of the Mighty Miracle God like a twig. Xuanzang cried over squashing a mosquito. You, on the other hand, have killed more demons than the Catholic Church.” I was starting to get annoyed. “Okay, then who the hell am I supposed to be?” If he thought I was the pig, then this whole deal was off. “You’re my weapon,” he said. “You’re the Ruyi Jingu Bang.” I punched Quentin as hard as I could in the face.

Love has many positionings. Cordelia makes good progress. She is sitting on my lap, her arm twines, soft and warm, round my neck; she leans upon my breast, light, without gravity; the soft contours scarcely touch me; like a flower her lovely figure twines about me, freely as a ribbon. Her eyes are hidden beneath her lashes, her bosom is dazzling white like snow, so smooth that my eye cannot rest, it would glance off if her bosom were not moving. What does this movement mean? Is it love? Perhaps. It is a presentiment of it, its dream. It still lacks energy. Her embrace is comprehensive, as the cloud enfolding the transfigured one, detached as a breeze, soft as the fondling of a flower; she kisses me unspecifically, as the sky kisses the sea, gently and quietly, as the dew kisses a flower, solemnly as the sea kisses the image of the moon. I would call her passion at this moment a naive passion. When the change has been made and I begin to draw back in earnest, she will call on everything she has to captivate me. She has no other means for this purpose than the erotic itself, except that this will now appear on a quite different scale. It then becomes a weapon in her hand which she wields against me. I then have the reflected passion. She fights for her own sake because she knows I possess the erotic; she fights for her own sake so as to overcome me. She herself is in need of a higher form of the erotic. What I taught her to suspect by arousing her, my coldness now teaches her to understand but in such a way that she thinks it is she herself who discovers it. So she wants to take me by surprise; she wants to believe that she has outstripped me in audacity, and that makes me her prisoner. Her passion then becomes specific, energetic, conclusive, dialectical; her kiss total, her embrace without hesitation.—In me she seeks her freedom and finds it the better the more firmly I encompass her. The engagement bursts. When that has happened she needs a little rest, so that nothing unseemly will emerge from this wild tumult. Her passion then composes itself once more and she is mine.” —from_Either/Or: A Fragment of Life_, (as written by his pseudonym Johannes the Seducer)

As Psalm 136:5--9 tell us, creation was God’s power expressed in love. By reading and understanding the Bible as a series of love letters to men and women, you begin to recognize the tender and mighty love of God. The Bible is not a rule book for life or a collection of fairy tales; it’s a weapon of mass instruction. It’s a love letter from God to humanity. It’s an introduction to Jesus Christ, who is God in human form. It declares to the world: God is for you, not against you. To me, the Bible is a work of nonfiction broken into three parts: from Genesis to Malachi, it’s about Jesus Christ coming to earth; from Matthew to John, it’s about Jesus’ life on earth; and from Acts to Revelation, it’s about Jesus coming back to earth. It’s all about Jesus and how we can have a relationship with the omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient, eternal, holy, and righteous Almighty. This relationship is more important than simply joining a church or doing a few good things.

What you’re saying makes no sense. At least, it doesn’t make sense to lower spatial dimensions as a weapon. In the long run, that’s the sort of attack that would kill the attacker as well as the target. Eventually, the side that initiated attack would also see their own space fall into the two-dimensional abyss they created.” Nothing but silence. After a long while, Cheng Xin called out, “Dr. Guan?” “You’re too … kind-hearted,” Guan Yifan said softly. “I don’t understand—” “There’s a way for the attacker to avoid death. Think about it.” Cheng Xin pondered and then said, “I can’t figure it out.” “I know you can’t. Because you’re too kind. It’s very simple. The attacker must first transform themselves into life forms that can survive in a low-dimensional universe. For instance, a four-dimensional species can transform itself into three-dimensional creatures, or a three-dimensional species can transform itself into two-dimensional life. After the entire civilization has entered a lower dimension, they can initiate a dimensional strike against the enemy without concern for the consequences.” Cheng Xin was silent again. “Are you reminded of anything?” Yifan asked. Cheng Xin was thinking of more than four hundred years ago, when Blue Space and Gravity had stumbled into the four-dimensional fragment. Yifan had been a member of the small expedition that conversed with the Ring. Did you build this four-dimensional fragment? You told me that you came from the sea. Did you build the sea? Are you saying that for you, or at least for your creators, this four-dimensional space is like the sea for us? More like a puddle. The sea has gone dry. Why are so many ships, or tombs, gathered in such a small space? When the sea is drying, the fish have to gather into a puddle. The puddle is also drying, and all the fish are going to disappear. Are all the fish here? The fish responsible for drying the sea are not here. We’re sorry. What you said is really hard to understand. The fish that dried out the sea went onto land before they did this. They moved from one dark forest to another dark forest. “Is it worth it to pay such a price for victory in war?” Cheng Xin asked. She could not imagine how it was possible to live in a world of one fewer dimension. In two-dimensional space, the visible world consisted of a few line segments of different lengths. Could anyone who was born in three-dimensional space willingly live in a thin sheet of paper with no thickness? Living in three dimensions must be equally confining and unimaginable for those born to a four-dimensional world. “It’s better than death,” said Yifan. While

In Isaiah 54:17 the Holy Spirit says, “No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is of me, saith the Lord.” It’s clear in this verse why no weapon that forms against us will prosper. It’s because of the righteousness of the Lord! Christ's righteousness has been imputed unto us by grace through faith. The Holy Spirit calls this our heritage. Praise God! Truly, whom the Son sets free, is free indeed! The enemy cannot condemn you if you are established in Christ’s righteousness.

Angels are flying all around us. I feel their presence in the air and in the dirt. I feel that kind of protection and I’m good. No matter what is formed and created against me.

No weapon formed against me shall prosper." This verse is often used in a triumphant way. As if to say "nothing can ever go wrong or hurt us in life, God is with us." However, Hebrews 11 speaks of people literally cut to pieces for the faith. What if the verse actually means come what may in this life, Christ conquered death, we followers are immortal and blessed with eternity. "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

16 Look, I have created the craftsmanwho blows on the charcoal fireand produces a weapon suitable for its task;and I have created the destroyer to cause havoc.17 No weapon formed against you will succeed,and you will refute any accusation Draised against you in court.This is the heritage of the Lord's servants, uand their righteousness is from Me.” v This is the Lord's declaration. Isaiah Come to the Lord 55 “Come, everyone who is thirsty, acome to the waters;and you without money,come, buy, and eat!Come, buy wine and milkwithout money and without cost!2 Why do you spend money on what is not food,and your wages on what does not satisfy?Listen carefully to Me, and eat what is good,and you will enjoy the choicest of foods. A

For a split second, Az thought Madi might tell him to move so he could slide in behind him, but after a moment's hesitation, he stepped into the oval-shaped tub and sat, moving until he was flush against Az, leaning back tentatively, shoulders up around his ears. Az chuckled. “At ease, motek. I simply want your company. I’m not waiting here with a weapon under the bubbles.” Madi relaxed visibly, resting his head against Az’s shoulder. “That’s better.” Az let his hands roam along Madi’s chest and torso. It seemed the best way to appreciate Madi’s form: slick, soapy fingers playing at his nipples, slipping along the ridges of his abdomen, threading through the hair just beneath his navel, stopping just short of his cock before slowly traveling upward again. Madi gave a sigh that sounded almost content. Az nuzzled behind his ear and along the curve of his throat, enjoying the salty tang of Madi’s skin on his lips. The longer Az caressed him, the more tranquil Madi seemed to grow, his chest rising and falling beneath Az’s hands. “Why didn’t you let me answer the question?” he finally asked. “What?” Madi asked, voice husky. “Earlier. Why didn’t you let me answer the question the therapist asked? What I admired about you? Did you think I’d have nothing to say?” Madi hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back.” Az threaded wet fingers through Madi’s hair, murmuring, “And if I don’t want to take it back?” Madi took a deep breath, shaking his head. “What is there for men like us? Just this. Fighting. Fucking. Killing. Mistrust. Misunderstandings.” “Is that all this is to you?” Az asked, knowing in his heart that wasn’t how Madi truly saw them, even if it would make things easier for the both of them if he did. Madi was quiet, but his hand caught Az’s wrist, sliding to tangle their fingers together. This gesture spoke the words it seemed Madi could not, causing a warmth to spread through Az that rivaled the bath water. Az spoke before he could stop himself. “The first thing I admired about you was your beauty. You were a sight for sore eyes that night in the bar, and I was shocked you wanted me.” This time, it was Madi who turned his head, nosing under Az’s chin in a barely-there touch. “When I realized why you were there after a bit of shameless snooping, I dismantled your weapon, not because you were the competition, but because I realized after the night we spent together, the only way I’d ever see you again was if I did something to make you angry enough to want to get even.” Madi didn’t answer but squeezed Az’s hand. Az could feel the uptick in his breaths, which told him Madi was listening. “I admire your skill with a weapon, motek, your precision. The way you kill is art. Truly. But you fucked like you killed…from a safe distance, where nobody can harm you. I needed you closer to me. At the core of every stupid decision I’ve made, every backwards plan, it was always just that. I wanted you—the real you—as close as I could get you.” “Why?” Madi asked, voice raw. “Because I knew, even then I think, that I could love you, but I wasn’t sure I could ever break down your walls enough to get you to love me.” “Yet here I am.” Az raised their intertwined fingers to kiss Madi’s palm. “Yes, here you are.

For a split second, Az thought Madi might tell him to move so he could slide in behind him, but after a moment's hesitation, he stepped into the oval-shaped tub and sat, moving until he was flush against Az, leaning back tentatively, shoulders up around his ears. Az chuckled. “At ease, motek. I simply want your company. I’m not waiting here with a weapon under the bubbles.” Madi relaxed visibly, resting his head against Az’s shoulder. “That’s better.” Az let his hands roam along Madi’s chest and torso. It seemed the best way to appreciate Madi’s form: slick, soapy fingers playing at his nipples, slipping along the ridges of his abdomen, threading through the hair just beneath his navel, stopping just short of his cock before slowly traveling upward again. Madi gave a sigh that sounded almost content. Az nuzzled behind his ear and along the curve of his throat, enjoying the salty tang of Madi’s skin on his lips. The longer Az caressed him, the more tranquil Madi seemed to grow, his chest rising and falling beneath Az’s hands. “Why didn’t you let me answer the question?” he finally asked. “What?” Madi asked, voice husky. “Earlier. Why didn’t you let me answer the question the therapist asked? What I admired about you? Did you think I’d have nothing to say?” Madi hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back.” Az threaded wet fingers through Madi’s hair, murmuring, “And if I don’t want to take it back?” Madi took a deep breath, shaking his head. “What is there for men like us? Just this. Fighting. Fucking. Killing. Mistrust. Misunderstandings.” “Is that all this is to you?” Az asked, knowing in his heart that wasn’t how Madi truly saw them, even if it would make things easier for the both of them if he did. Madi was quiet, but his hand caught Az’s wrist, sliding to tangle their fingers together. This gesture spoke the words it seemed Madi could not, causing a warmth to spread through Az that rivaled the bath water. Az spoke before he could stop himself. “The first thing I admired about you was your beauty. You were a sight for sore eyes that night in the bar, and I was shocked you wanted me.” This time, it was Madi who turned his head, nosing under Az’s chin in a barely-there touch. “When I realized why you were there after a bit of shameless snooping, I dismantled your weapon, not because you were the competition, but because I realized after the night we spent together, the only way I’d ever see you again was if I did something to make you angry enough to want to get even.” Madi didn’t answer but squeezed Az’s hand. Az could feel the uptick in his breaths, which told him Madi was listening. “I admire your skill with a weapon, motek, your precision. The way you kill is art. Truly. But you fucked like you killed…from a safe distance, where nobody can harm you. I needed you closer to me. At the core of every stupid decision I’ve made, every backwards plan, it was always just that. I wanted you—the real you—as close as I could get you.” “Why?” Madi asked, voice raw. “Because I knew, even then I think, that I could love you, but I wasn’t sure I could ever break down your walls enough to get you to love me.” “Yet here I am.” Az raised their intertwined fingers to kiss Madi’s palm. “Yes, here you are.

The venomous words of evil men may pierce the air, but they will never penetrate the armor of a godly woman's faith. For she stands secure in the shadow of the Almighty, her defense is Jesus, and no weapon formed against her will prosper. Their manipulative lies and accusations will rebound upon their own heads, for the Lord is her refuge and her vindicator. She will not be shaken, for her roots run deep in the love of God, and her hope is anchored in the unshakeable rock of His promises. Isaiah 54:17 - "No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and every tongue which rises against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is from Me," says the Lord.

I’m fairly certain where you got that dagger, Shaselle.” Cannan walked toward me, pushing his cloak from his broad shoulders. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” I swallowed uneasily. “It-it was Papa’s, remember?” “No, it wasn’t. Tell me how you came to have it.” I stared at him, afraid to answer, afraid to remain silent. He considered me, then laid his cloak around my shoulders. It was still warm from his body and enormously comforting. “I don’t intend to punish you, Shaselle. I’m trying to protect you. But I need to know the truth.” With a shaky breath, I confessed, “It was hidden in Papa’s study.” “And were there others?” “Yes. Many.” Cannan absorbed this, nodding his head. “Sit down,” he said, motioning to a stack of hay against the wall. I obeyed without a word, not sure what would happen now. He stood before me, dark, tall and grave, but not threatening. He had promised he would protect me; he wouldn’t hurt me. “You weren’t supposed to find those weapons--no one was. Have you told anyone?” I shook my head, my mouth so dry I wasn’t certain I could form words. “Is it possible anyone saw you with them?” “No, I was alone. It was late at night.” “Did you disturb the rest of the armaments?” “No. I left them in place and again covered the entrance.” “Good.” Cannan noticeably relaxed in light of my answers. Maybe my mistake would not create problems for them, after all. “One last question. Can you keep silent on the issue?” “Of course,” I said, mortified that he might think otherwise. “And can you stay out of it?” The horses snuffed and pawed the ground in the quiet. I sat stupidly, my lips parted, not sure how to answer. Could I forget what I’d discovered and never wonder about it again? No. Cannan crossed his arms, guessing my thoughts. “Then ask me what you want to know and I’ll tell you.” “What?” I blurted, flabbergasted by what he was offering. “I cannot risk you getting hurt, Shaselle, and your curiosity cannot disrupt what we have planned. If giving you information will keep you from disrupting things, I will do so.

Within minutes, the other angels followed the sound of the collapsed tunnel and found Mikael’s location. They were able to dislodge enough of the rock and pull his broken body from the rubble. He had been severely crushed. Gabriel held him. “I can bring him back to the surface to heal.” Raphael said, “That leaves five. We can split up and try to surround the mole. He can’t hide here forever.” They heard the sound of a howl. “Dire wolves,” said Uriel. “We can’t chase him here forever.” Dire wolves were vicious, fanged black hounds of hell almost as tall as a man. Raphael said, “He must have bred them down here. There could be dozens.” “Or hundreds,” said Uriel. The angels could kill dozens of the wolves. But hundreds was another matter altogether. Several of them had almost been overwhelmed by a hundred dire wolves in the days of the giant King Arba, while rescuing Abraham and Sarah from the clutches of the Anakim in Kiriath-arba. They were rescued by a hundred archers. But they didn’t have a hundred archers down in this dungeon of dread darkness. “Take Mikael to safety,” said Uriel. “The rest of you draw the wolves back up to the surface.” They looked at Uriel with fear. Gabriel said, “No, Uriel. We can do this together.” Uriel grasped the leather harness of the special weapon strapped to his back. “I must do this alone.” They all knew what it meant. Uriel had the most sensitive senses. He was the best tracker of all of them. Gabriel protested more, “I will not let you.” “You have no choice.” They heard the sound of wolves getting closer. “And I have no time to quibble with you, Gabriel. Leave — all of you. Draw them after you.” Gabriel teared up. What Uriel was going to do was akin to suicide for humans. Raphael said, “He’s right.” They agreed silently. Gabriel went and grasped his friend in a bear hug that he didn’t seem to want to let go. “My brother.” “Stop your pouting, Gabriel. It’s only until the judgment.” Gabriel pulled away with an angry look in his face. It softened, and he said with a smirk, “You will finally outdo me, little friend.” Uriel gave him a dirty look. Little friend. There was still time to tease. “I outdid you a long time ago,” said Uriel with a grin. Gabriel added, “But there is still Armageddon. You don’t know what I might be capable of.” Uriel said, “Go. We’ll have all eternity to debate that.” They turned to leave. But their delay had lost them time. The underworld dire wolves were upon them. Fifty glowing eyes locked on them, approaching slowly, ready to pounce. There was only enough room to fight against one or two wolves at a time through the narrow passages. Gabriel stood at the back, carrying the broken form of Mikael, who was starting to heal, but not able to fight yet. The other four approached the wolves in single file.

No weapon that is formed against you will prosper. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their vindication is from Me’ declares the Lord.

No, there's a group of hardened, fossilised men opposed by fresh young revolutionaries as John Butte once was, forming between them a whole, a balance. And then a group of fossilised hardened men like John Butte, opposed by a group of fresh and lively-minded and critical people. But the core of deadness, of dry thought, could not exist without lively shoots of fresh life, to be turned so fast, in their turn, into dead sapless wood. In other words, I, 'Comrade Anna'- and the ironical tone of Comrade Butte's voice now frightens me when I remember it-keep Comrade Butte in existence, feed him, and in due course will become him. And as I think this, that there is no right, no wrong, simply a process, a wheel turning, I become frightened, because everything in me cries out against such a view of life, and I am back inside a nightmare which it seems I've been locked in for years, whenever I'm off guard. The nightmare takes various forms, comes in sleep, or in wakefulness, and can be pictured most simply like this: There is a blindfolded man standing with his back to a brick wall. He has been tortured nearly to death. Opposite him are six men with their rifles raised ready to shoot, commanded by a seventh, who has his hand raised. When he drops his hand, the shots will ring out, and the prisoner will fall dead. But suddenly there is something unexpected-yet not altogether unexpected, for the seventh has been listening all this while in case it happens. There is an outburst of shouting and fighting in the street outside. The six men look in query at their officer, the seventh. The officer stands waiting to see how the fighting outside will resolve itself. There is a shout: 'We have won!' At which the officer crosses the space to the wall, unties the bound man, and stands in his place. The man, hitherto bound, now binds the other. There is a moment, and this is the moment of horror in the nightmare, when they smile at each other: it is a brief, bitter, accepting smile. They are brothers in that smile. The smile holds a terrible truth that I want to evade. Because it cancels all creative emotion. The officer, the seventh, now stands blindfolded and waiting with his back to the wall. The former prisoner walks to the firing squad who are still standing with their weapons ready. He lifts his hand, then drops it. The shots ring out, and the body by the wall falls twitching. The six soldiers are shaken and sick; now they will go and drink to drown the memory of their murder. But the man who was bound, is now free, smiles as they stumble away, cursing and hating him, just as they would have cursed and hated the other, now dead. And in this man's smile at the six innocent soldiers there is a terrible understanding irony. This is the nightmare.

As he and Beth hit the stairs, he called out to his brothers, “Thanks for having my back once again.” The group stopped and turned to face him. After a beat of silence, they formed a half circle around the foot of the grand staircase, each making a thick fist with his weapon hand. With a great whoop! of a war cry, they went down on their right knee and slammed their heavy knuckles into the mosaic floor. The sound was thunder and bass drums and bomb explosions, ricocheting outward, filling all the rooms of the mansion. Wrath stared at them, seeing their heads bent, their broad backs curled, their powerful arms planted. They had each gone to that meeting prepared to take a bullet for him, and that would ever be true. Behind Tohr’s smaller form, Lassiter, the fallen angel, stood with a straight spine, but he wasn’t cracking any jokes at this reaffirmation of allegiance. Instead, he was back to staring at the damn ceiling. Wrath glanced up at the mural of warriors silhouetted against a blue sky and could see nothing much of the pictures that he’d been told were there. Getting back with the program, he said in the Old Language, “No stronger allies, no greater friends, no better fighters of honor could a king behold than these assembled afore me, mine brothers, mine blood.” A rolling growl of ascent lifted as the warriors got to their feet again, and Wrath nodded to each one of them. He had no more words to offer as his throat had abruptly choked, but they didn’t seem to need anything else. They stared at him with respect and gratitude and purpose, and he accepted their enormous gifts with grave appreciation and resolve. This was the ages-old covenant between king and subjects, the pledges on both sides made with the heart and carried out by the sharp mind and the strong body. “God, I love you guys,” Beth said. There was a lot of deep laughter, and then Hollywood said, “You want us to stab the floor for you again? Fists are for kings, but the queen gets the daggers.” “I wouldn’t want you to take chips out of this beautiful floor. Thank you, though.” “Say the word and it’s nothing but rubble.” Beth laughed. “Be still, my heart.” The Brothers came over and kissed the Saturnine Ruby that rode on her finger, and as each paid his honor, she gave him a gentle stroke of the hair. Except for Zsadist, who she smiled tenderly at. “Excuse us, boys,” Wrath said. “Little quiet time, feel me?” There was a ripple of male approval, which Beth took in stride—and with a blush—and then it was time for some privacy.

In May of 1952, about a dozen individuals lead by Fidel Castro formed a group of anti-Batista rebels called “The Movement.” Fidel Castro had become a well-known activist and wrote articles intended to fire up the public in an underground newspaper El Acusador (The Accuser). In one year, his group grew to about 1,200 people. They began accumulating weapons with the idea that they would openly attack a Batista stronghold as a uniformed militant force. Being careful, Castro kept his intentions secret and only a few people knew that the target would be the Moncada Barracks in Santiago de Cuba. The attack on the second largest military barracks in Cuba, named after General Guillermón Moncada, a hero of the War of Independence, was worked out in the tiny two-room apartment of Abel Santamaría. Abel and his sister Haydée lived on the corner of 25th and O Streets in El Vedado, Havana. Only Abel, Haydée and seven other people were entrusted with the details of the attack. Tight security was maintained throughout and since the volunteers of the revolution were divided into cells, few of them knew each other…. One hundred and thirty two men and two women went up against 1,000 trained soldiers and although the battle ended badly for the Castro brothers, the attack on the barracks caused a public fury throughout Cuba. At his sentencing for leading the failed mission, Fidel delivered his famous “History will Absolve Me” speech. Read more in “The Exciting Story of Cuba.

Father In the Name of Jesus, I thank you that this is the confidence that I have in you that if I ask anything according to your will you hear me and if you hear me then I know I have the petitions I have desired of you. Father I thank you that no weapon that is formed against me prospers and I condemn every tongue that will rise against me in judgment for this is my heritage as a child of God and my righteousness is of you. Father I thank you that I am the righteousness of God in Christ Jesus. Today I receive anew the abundance of your grace and your gift of righteousness by which I am destined to reign in this life. Today I receive afresh the spirit of wisdom and revelation in the knowledge of you Jesus – In Jesus

Fred Hammond song, “No weapon formed against me shall prosper, it won’t work…God will do what He said He would do. He will stand by His Word. He will come through…No weapon formed against me shall prosper, it won’t work…

I love those who hate me and I will do well to those who misuse me. No weapon formed against me shall prosper. The battle is the Lord’s.

No weapon formed against me shall prosper, for my righteousness is of the Lord. But whatever I do will prosper for I’m like a tree that’s planted by the rivers of water (Isaiah 54:17; Psalms 1:3).

We must become resolute in trusting the promises of God and believing Scriptures like Isaiah 54:17 which promises, “No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and every tongue which rises against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is from Me,” says the Lord.” The next time Satan does something to try to undermine your faith—what will you choose? Will you choose to fall for his deceptive tricks or will you make the conscious decision to THINK YOURSELF HAPPY?

With a wicked smirk, I part the Devil's lips. He invites me eagerly with want, drinking me in like salted chocolate, savoring my blood on his tongue. He thinks he has me. My muscles tense when he weakens, my power growing as his desire burgeons. It shifts too suddenly. I gasp as he grabs me by the waist, pulling me firmly against his body. His hand coils around my neck, lifting my lips to his. My eyes shut instinctually, tasting the blood and honey on his tongue. The taste deepens, layered like spiced sangria. I want more. I want it so much, it consumes me. I press into him harder. He's ravenous, squeezing me, threading his fingers through my hair, ruining my curls. No. My eyes burst open, but I don't shatter his fantasy. Not yet. I come up for breath as his lips find their way to my neck. I tilt my head back, glancing at the stained glass ceiling. The upper hand is mine again when I push him against the stone wall, furiously feeding him kisses to satiate his hunger. He grabs my leg, pulling it around his waist. I balance myself against the cave, and with my touch, crystals start to sprout. Citrine, ruby, and amber. They form into points, my own glittering weapons. Once they're not long enough, I snap a piece off. The Devil mistakes my destruction as rapture. I play into it further. Grabbing him by the collar, I spin us away from the wall, continuing our tango over to the balcony. Wisps of my gossamer gown pool around my thighs as he explores me. My fingers twist into his hair, pulling, stringing up his appetite until he begs for more. And, once I have him truly at my mercy, I jab the crystal straight into his back.

I've come to realize that I don't need human friends to feel supported. God is my ultimate defender and confidant. While people may offer comforting words, I know that they can't be physically present to face life's challenges with me. It's a harsh truth that many individuals are deceitful and forgetful of our shared struggles. But I take comfort in knowing that God is always with me, never abandoning or forsaking me. In times of need, I'll remain silent and trust that He will fight my battles. As the scripture says, 'No weapon formed against me shall prosper' (Isaiah 54:17). I find solace in His unwavering presence and protection.

No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their vindication is from Me,” declares the Lord.

That constitutes a chastening reminder for someone like myself, with a bias in favor of the written page and a sour prejudice against mass-market video: a reminder that, although images can be deceptive, they don't stand convicted alone. Writing is just another form of concoction. Words can lie too. You can trust me on this, probably.

Isaiah 54:17 – “Any weapon formed to harm me will fail, and any tongue raised against me, in judgment, shall be condemned. This is my heritage in Christ. My vindication comes from the Almighty Himself. By the blood of Jesus, I am walking in divine protection and victory.

1. Isaiah 54:17 – “I declare that through the blood of Jesus, no weapon formed against me, not witchcraft, nor other devices of the enemy, shall prosper. Every spoken word made against me and my family is condemned, rendered powerless, and destroyed forever and ever, in Jesus’ name.

Lift your head, prince. Unless it’s easier for you to tell your lies when you’re bowing on your knees.” He jerked his head up until he was looking directly at me, and a dark smirk formed on his lips. “I will do whatever you want me to on my knees, princess. You want me to breathe all the wicked fucking truths to you against your thighs? I will. You want lies? I’ll worship you with my tongue while I tell you I don’t linger over your curves like a man starved. I’ll lie and say that your soft little moans don’t torture me at night when I try to rest. I’ll whisper a lie against your skin and make sure you know that my desire for you isn’t the most dangerous weapon that anyone can use against me.

No weapon formed against you shall prosper; and every tongue which rises against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is from Me, says the Lord.” Isaiah 54:17 (NKJV)

No weapon formed against me shall prosper.

When I feel weak, He encourages me to keep pressing on. I am bold, courageous, and confident in Christ. No weapon formed against me shall prosper because greater is He who is in me than he who is in the world.

I suppose that loudmouthed bastard told you more than was necessary.' 'You voted against me,' she said, her cold voice belying the crack in her chest. 'You have done nothing to prove you are able to handle such a terrible power,' Amren said with equal iciness. 'On that barge, you told me as much when you walked away from any attempt at mastering it. I offered to teach you more, and you walked away.' 'I walked away because you chose my sister.' Just as Elain had done. Amren had been her friend, her ally, and yet in the end, it hadn't mattered one bit. She'd picked Feyre. 'I didn't choose anyone, you stupid girl,' Amren snapped. 'I told you that Feyre had requested you and I work together again, and you somehow twist that into me siding with her?' Nesta said nothing. 'I told them to leave you alone for months. I refused to speak about you with them. And then the moment I realised my behaviour was not helping you, that maybe your sister was right, I somehow betrayed you?' Nesta shook. 'You know how I feel about Feyre.' 'Yes, poor Nesta, with a younger sister who loves her so dearly she's willing to do anything to get her help.' Nesta blocked out the memory of Tamlin in his beast form, how she had wanted to rip him limb from limb. She was no better than him, in the end. 'Feyre doesn't have me.' She didn't deserve Feyre's love. Just as Tamlin hadn't. Amren barked out a laugh. 'That you believe Feyre doesn't only proves you're unworthy of your power. Anyone that willingly blind cannot be trusted. You would be a walking nightmare with those weapons.' 'It's different now.' The words rang hollow. Was it any different? Was she any different that she'd been this summer, when she and Amren had fought on the barge, and Amren's utter disappointment in her failure to be anything had surfaced at last? Amren smiled, as if she knew that, too. 'You can train as hard as you want, fuck Cassian as often as you want, but it isn't going to fix what's broken if you don't start reflecting.' 'Don't preach at me.. You-' She pointed at Amren, and could have sworn the female stepped out of the line of fire. Just as Tamlin had done. As if Amren also remembered that the last time Nesta had pointed at an enemy, it had ended with his severed head in her hands. A joyless laugh broke from her. 'You think I'd mark you with a death-promise?' 'You nearly did with Tamlin the other day.' So Cassian had told them all about that, too. 'But I'll say to you again what I said on that barge. I think you have powers that you still do not understand, respect, or control.' 'How dare you assume you know what is best for me?' When Amren didn't answer, Nesta hissed, 'You were my friend.' Amren's teeth flashed. 'Was I? I don't think you know what that word means.' Her chest ached, as if that invisible fist had punched her once again. Steps thudded beyond the shattered door, and she braced for Cassian to come roaring in- But it was Feyre.

I declare that I am innocent of the false accusations brought against me. I trust in the justice of God and know that He will reveal the truth. I bind the spirits of deception and lies that seek to harm my reputation. I call forth the angels of God to defend me and expose the falsehoods. I stand on the promise that the truth will set me free and that God will vindicate me. No weapon formed against me shall prosper, and every tongue that rises against me shall be condemned. I walk in integrity and faith, knowing that God is my defender and advocate. Amen.

And the reason I started crying was because I realized how big and insurmountable seeming systemic racism is. It involves so many different perpetrators, it involves us, the victims, and it comes in so many different forms... A big part of the Sunken Place, to me, is the silencing of our voice, the silencing of our screams, what we as a culture did to Colin Kaepernick for using his voice, the silencing of that voice, or the attempted silencing of that voice. And the beauty of what many great civil rights leaders, specifically Martin Luther King Jr., taught us is that our voice is the weapon we have against violence, against oppression, against hatred. So, the silencing of that voice, it comes in prison, it comes in athletes, it comes in the lack of representation of Black people in horror movies, and any part of this industry.

The beast plopped into the chair, the wood groaning, and, in a flash of white light, turned into a golden-haired man. I stifled a cry and pushed myself against the panelled wall beside the door, feeling for the molding of the threshold, trying to gauge the distance between me and escape. The beast was not a man, not a lesser faerie. He was one of the High Fae, one of their ruling nobility: beautiful, lethal, and merciless. He was young- or at least what I could see of his face seemed young. His nose, cheeks, and brows were covered by an exquisite golden mask embedded with emeralds shaped like whorls of leaves. Some absurd High Fae fashion, no doubt. It left only his eyes- looking the same as they had in beast form, strong jaw, and mouth for me to see, and the latter tightened into a thin line. 'You should eat something,' he said. Unlike the elegance of his mask, the dark green tunic he wore was rather plain, accented only with a leather baldric across his broad chest. It was more for fighting than style, even though he bore no weapons I could detect. Not just one of the High Fae, but... a warrior, too.

Alright, Captain Stan,” I said as I grabbed a slip of parchment. “Stealth destruction is your primary operative, which means none of my weapons are ideal. Lucky for you, though, I was onto something before that last channeling gem mysteriously killed itself.” Stan made a point of avoiding my gaze as he focused intently on the blank page in front of us, and I snorted as I began sketching out the elemental degree mapping. Then I drew the beginnings of a rune Dragir had helped me balance when I stopped by House Quyn about the rockets, and when I finished the last line, I shifted the paper to present it to Stan. “This is an altered form of the fireball rune I’ve been using for the 1911s,” I explained. “According to Dragir, this seventeenth degree will counter the flash of the flames, so while they’ll still be burning, they won’t give off a blaze. I have no idea how that’s supposed to work, but we’ll have to see when we do our first trial run. This line that intersects both the sixty-fourth and eleventh degrees is the silencing method we’re going with. Ideally, not even a crackle will give you away. Initially, I was gonna make you a fun little flamethrower, but--” Stan nodded vigorously as he rubbed his hands together, and I sent him an apologetic smirk. “I don’t think it’s gonna work, though,” I continued, and the little metal man deflated. “I know, but your intelligence last night got me thinking, and despite how powerful this rune will be, it doesn’t change the fact that tiny elemental degree lines tend to be less powerful. Using a weapon your size, you could be standing there all day trying to burn up one engraving with an exterior flame attack. Now that we know you’re up against foot-tall defensive runes, though, I’ve decided we need to pack a bigger punch straight into your target without running out the clock. Ideally, these burns should be able to carry on with the same strength while Solana books it to the next target, and one jet of enchanted flames doesn’t accomplish that.” Stan could see the logic, and I could tell he was trying not to look too bummed out about the flamethrower. “I think you’ll like our alternative option, though,” I assured him, “because I already have a highly effective way of achieving our goal, and if this balance of silencing elements works as it should, then it logically follows that its properties would transfer to whatever it’s being channeled through. For example, a bullet.” Now, Stan slowly looked up at me, and I sent him an evil grin. “That’s right, buddy,” I confirmed. “It’s miniature gun time.” The little metal man shot to his feet, and the way he exalted like a maniac with his arms out wide and his head thrown back made me wonder if this was his version of a villainous laugh. Then he started gunning down every scrap of metal in the shop with his invisible guns, and I briefly questioned if I was making a poor decision.

Lord Jesus, thank You for loving me so unconditionally. I stand on Your unfailing promise that no weapon of sickness formed against me shall prosper. Thank You that nothing the enemy brings against me, whether it is sickness, fear, or any kind of oppression, has power over my life. My eyes are on You, Jesus, and I will keep declaring and resting in Your finished work. Amen.

In this way, the story recounted here is also a flag raised against the brute visage of fundamentalism, in all its forms, here and abroad. The book is, I hope, an account of religious and cultural hubris and misanthropy. What struck me during my research was learning the degree to which violence had often been a third or fourth choice in resolving conflict. Indeed, some men in this book never fired their weapon, even when doing so would have put an “end” to a problem. Instead, the crisis of a particular moment was fixed by crouching in the dirt with a stick, opposite the “opponent,” and scratching out a solution.

Dear Heavenly Father, I thank You that You are the God of the breakthrough. Thank You that no matter what it is, my health, my finances, my relationships or my state of mind, You can break through any spiritual obstacle holding me from Your best for me. Thank You that no weapon formed against me will succeed. Thank You that You are my defender against the enemy in every form. Thank You that the victory has already been sealed for me through You, in Jesus name, amen.

I am a child of God, therefore I don’t have to be afraid or dismayed. I know God is with me. He will strengthen me, help me, and uphold me with His hand (Isa. 41:10). I am a child of God, therefore no weapon formed against me shall succeed. God will disprove every tongue that rises against me in judgment (Isa. 54:17 ESV). I am a child of God, therefore God is in my midst, a mighty one who will save me; He will rejoice over me with gladness; He will quiet me with his love; He will exult over me with loud singing (Zeph. 3:17). I am a child of God, therefore God’s Word is there for me. It is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path (Ps. 119:105).

The heavy hood concealed the stranger’s face in shadow, but Aelin glimpsed ivory skin, dark hair, and fine velvet gloves reaching into her cloak—for a weapon? “Start explaining,” Aelin said, leaning against the door frame, “or you’re rat meat.” The woman stepped back into the rain—not back, exactly, but toward the carriage, where Aelin noted the small form of a child waiting inside. Cowering. The woman said, “I came to warn you,” and pulled back her hood just enough to reveal her face. Large, slightly uptilted green eyes, sensuous lips, sharp cheekbones, and a pert nose combined to create a rare, staggering beauty that caused men to lose all common sense. Aelin stepped under the narrow awning and drawled, “As far as memory serves me, Lysandra, I warned you that if I ever saw you again, I’d kill you.

Talasyn suddenly wanted nothing more than to assure Alaric of her presence. She sank fully against his form, holding him down with her weight, burying her face in the side of his neck in a chaste imitation of what he had done to her once, in another bed. “I’m here,” she vowed into his smooth, overheated skin. “I’m not going anywhere.” A sound between a groan and a hitch of breath caught in his throat. The hand on the small of her back rubbed compulsively, tracing the notches of her spine, and his arm tightened around her. His other hand tangled in her hair. “I couldn’t kill that rebel.” It was a choked, bewildered rumble in her ear. “One word from you and I let my guard down. I couldn’t kill you, either, all those times before … What am I, if I’m not a weapon? What have you done to me?