Sins Tattoo Quotes

Grace’s gaze skimmed over her, taking in the various marks of possession that decorated her flesh. “Well, short of having ‘Property of Trey Coleman’ tattooed on your forehead, he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he considered you his, could he?

I'm not a cop. I'm just a tattoo artist. I'm just a guy who used to be in love with a girl. I'm just a fool who's been fooled too many times before. I'm just a man who's finally getting his revenge.

Hell, if a neighbour were to stick their head out their window and see a tattooed god ramming a chick in the neighbour’s backyard all lit by romantic lights, they’d probably watch. I’d watch too.

Oh. My. God. You're Rose Hathaway aren't you?" "Yeah." I said with surprise. "Do you know me?" "Everyone knows you. I mean, everyone heard about you. You're the one who ran away. And then you came back and killed the Strigoi. That is so cool! Did you get molnija marks?" Her words came out in one long string. She hardly took a breath. "Yeah. I have two." Thinking about the tiny tattoos on the back of my neck made my skin itch. Her pale green eyes—if possible—grew wider. "Oh my God. Wow." I usually grew irate when people made a big deal about molnija marks. After all, the circumstances had not been cool. But this girl was young, and there was something appealing about her. "What's your name?" I asked. "Jillian—Jill. I mean, just Jill. Not both. Jillian's my full name. Jill's what everyone calls me." "Right." I said, hiding a smile. "I figured it out." "I heard Moroi used magic on that trip to fight. Is that true? I would love to do that. I wish someone would teach me. I use air. Do you think i could fight Strigoi with that? Everyone says I'm crazy!" For centuries, Moroi using magic to fight had been viewed as a sin. Everyone believed it should be used peacefully. Recently, some had started to question that, particularly after Christian had proved useful in the Spokane escape. "I don't know." I said. "You should talk to Christian Ozera." She gaped. "Would he talk to me?" "If you bring up fighting the establishment, yeah he'll talk to you." "Okay, cool. Was that Guardian Belikov?" she asked, switching subjects abruptly. "Yeah." I swore I thought she might faint then and there. "Really? He's even cuter then I heard. He's your teacher right? Like, your own personal teacher?" "Yeah." I wondered where he was. Talking to Jill was exhausting. "Wow. You know you guys don't even act like teacher and student. You seem like friends. Do you hang out when you're not training?" "Er, well, kind of. Sometimes." I remembered my earlier thoughts, about how I was one of the few people Dimitri was social with outside of his guardian duties. "I knew it! I can't even imagine that—I'd be freaking out all the time around him. I'd never get anything done, but your so cool about it all, kind of like, 'Yeah. I'm with this totally hot guy, but whatever it doesn't matter!'" I laughed in spite of myself. "I think you're giving me more credit than I deserve." "No way. And I don't believe any of those stories, you know." "Um, stories?" "Yeah about you beating up Christian Ozera." "Thanks." I said.

Not that it was a crazy complicated skill, but operating an espresso machine during high traffic could be added to my repertoire along with card tricks and how to fire a Colt .45. (Quote taken from ARC, subject to change)

If all of our sins, bad habits, and poor choices were permanently inked into our skin like tattoos, we would all dress quite modestly.

He was a living, breathing sin. In her bedroom.

You had another tattoo done? What does it say?" "Alex. It says, Alex. I guess I just needed something to remind me you were real, because after you left, there was nothing ... nothing to say you'd ever been here.

This woman could make a saint sin.

Even though there are few to no credible passages—properly interpreted—in Scripture that call things such as alcohol and tattoos utterly sinful, some fundamentalists insist they are.

Dominic, without saying a word, begged for everything physical and everything tender, the sins of the flesh tattooed on him though he had never known such things; or perhaps because he had not.

She had tried to lock her sins up in the attic of her psyche as if they were a mystical portrait forced to bear the demonic scars upon her soul. But her actions had caught up to her at last, coming for their pound of flesh, and she could feel the burn of her transgressions on her skin like a half-healed tattoo.

For a person accustomed to the multi ethnic commotion of Los Angeles, Vancouver, New York, or even Denver, walking across the BYU campus can be a jarring experience. One sees no graffiti, not a speck of litter. More than 99 percent of the thirty thousand students are white. Each of the young Mormons one encounters is astonishingly well groomed and neatly dressed. Beards, tattoos, and pierced ears (or other body parts) are strictly forbidden for men. Immodest attire and more than a single piercing per ear are forbidden among women. Smoking, using profane language, and drinking alcohol or even coffee are likewise banned. Heeding the dictum "Cougars don't cut corners," students keep to the sidewalks as they hurry to make it to class on time; nobody would think of attempting to shave a few precious seconds by treading on the manicured grass. Everyone is cheerful, friendly, and unfailingly polite. Most non-Mormons think of Salt Lake City as the geographic heart of Mormonism, but in fact half the population of Salt Lake is Gentile, and many Mormons regard the city as a sinful, iniquitous place that's been corrupted by outsiders. To the Saints themselves, the true Mormon heartland is here in Provo and surrounding Utah County--the site of chaste little towns like Highland, American Fork, Orem, Payson and Salem--where the population is nearly 90 percent LDS. The Sabbath is taken seriously in these parts. Almost all businesses close on Sundays, as do public swimming pools, even on the hottest days of the summer months. This part of the state is demographically notable in other aspects, as well. The LDS Church forbids abortions, frowns on contraception, and teaches that Mormon couples have a sacred duty to give birth to as many children as they can support--which goes a long way toward explaining why Utah County has the highest birth rate in the United States; it is higher, in fact, than the birth rate in Bangladesh. This also happens to be the most Republican county in the most Republican state in the nation. Not coincidentally, Utah County is a stronghold not only of Mormonism but also Mormon Fundamentalism.

Ms. Lane.”Barrons’ voice is deep, touched with that strange Old World accent and mildly pissed off. Jericho Barrons is often mildly pissed off. I think he crawled from the swamp that way, chafed either by some condition in it, out of it, or maybe just the general mass incompetence he encountered in both places. He’s the most controlled, capable man I’ve ever known. After all we’ve been through together, he still calls me Ms. Lane, with one exception: When I’m in his bed. Or on the floor, or some other place where I’ve temporarily lost my mind and become convinced I can’t breathe without him inside me this very instant. Then the things he calls me are varied and nobody’s business but mine. I reply: “Barrons,” without inflection. I’ve learned a few things in our time together. Distance is frequently the only intimacy he’ll tolerate. Suits me. I’ve got my own demons. Besides I don’t believe good relationships come from living inside each other’s pockets. I believe divorce comes from that. I admire the animal grace with which he enters the room and moves toward me. He prefers dark colors, the better to slide in and out of the night, or a room, unnoticed except for whatever he’s left behind that you may or may not discover for some time, like, say a tattoo on the back of one’s skull. “What are you doing?” “Reading,” I say nonchalantly, rubbing the tattoo on the back of my skull. I angle the volume so he can’t see the cover. If he sees what I’m reading, he’ll know I’m looking for something. If he realizes how bad it’s gotten, and what I’m thinking about doing, he’ll try to stop me. He circles behind me, looks over my shoulder at the thick vellum of the ancient manuscript. “In the first tongue?” “Is that what it is?” I feign innocence. He knows precisely which cells in my body are innocent and which are thoroughly corrupted. He’s responsible for most of the corrupted ones. One corner of his mouth ticks up and I see the glint of beast behind his eyes, a feral crimson backlight, bloodstaining the whites. It turns me on. Barrons makes me feel violently, electrically sexual and alive. I’d march into hell beside him. But I will not let him march into hell beside me. And there’s no doubt that’s where I’m going. I thought I was strong, a heroine. I thought I was the victor. The enemy got inside my head and tried to seduce me with lies. It’s easy to walk away from lies. Power is another thing. Temptation isn’t a sin that you triumph over once, completely and then you’re free. Temptation slips into bed with you each night and helps you say your prayers. It wakes you in the morning with a friendly cup of coffee, and knows exactly how you take it. He skirts the Chesterfield sofa and stands over me. “Looking for something, Ms. Lane?” I’m eye level with his belt but that’s not where my gaze gets stuck and suddenly my mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow and I know I’m going to want to. I’m Pri-ya for this man. I hate it. I love it. I can’t escape it. I reach for his belt buckle. The manuscript slides from my lap, forgotten. Along with everything else but this moment, this man. “I just found it,” I tell him.

All our sins and secrets might as well be tattooed on our foreheads.

He strode, nude, to his desk, and, bending over it, afforded her a quite scandalous view of his muscular bottom. He seemed to have a dark mark of some kind on the left cheek. Good God, it looked like a tattoo. What-? "I have the most lamentable taste sometimes. It probably would be better if a few of my things disappeared. Why, Mrs. Crumb," he drawled, and she snapped her gaze belatedly up to find that he'd turned back to her- damn it! "Were you ogling my arse?" She opened her mouth and then wasn't sure, exactly, what to say. Was he about to dismiss her or not? "I... I-" "Ye-es?" He took one long stride toward her. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of what she'd until now successfully ignored: He. Was. Nude.

-... Intenta verlo de la siguiente manera: un ser humano es una envoltura de piel que mantiene en su sitio a las células, la sangre y las sustancias químicas. Unos pocos individuos terminan en los libros de historia. Pero la gran mayoría sucumbe y desaparece sin dejar rastro. -Matas mujeres. -Los que matamos por placer, porque yo no soy el único que tiene este pasatiempo, vivimos una vida completa.

Hell and Heaven are states of being, not destinations. They are worlds we carry within. Don't expect to find angels and demons -- not in the way you've envisioned them. As God is called Allah, so Man is called Monster. Don't be fooled by titles. Call a skunk a rose and it will continue to reek. Hydras do not crawl out from between the weatherworn pages of fairytale anthologies. On the contrary, they ride the subway and order food at the local drive-through and enjoy stolen kisses at the cinema. Only one head is visible to the naked eye. They tend to avoid reflective surfaces. Each head is a sin: each belch of fire is a sin put to action. But you should know that the shadows differ. There may be seven heads, or three, or one. Those with one head are particularly tricky. Who's to say if they're human or hydra? You'd have to kiss them, bite them. You would know them by their mouth. The name of their sin is tattooed on the inside of their bottom lip, so they can lick and taste its sweetness.

It is interesting, really: The Old Testament fits far more easily with Christian nationalism but is so problematic to defend that they often retreat from it when pressed. For example, you might have noticed in Leviticus that the wording for the verse condemning homosexuality is almost identical to those condemning cursing or attacking one's parents and adultery. The wages of those sins are death, and the sinner is held responsible for that outcome. But a significant number of Christians commit these sins, including many clergy members (at least, it would seem, when it comes to adultery), so it is very difficult to hide the hypocrisy inherent in strongly enforcing one rule while taking a relatively understanding stance on the others. In some cases, the rules are deemed historical artifacts to sidestep troublesome challenges. The Bible is the literal Word of God… but Christians see no problem in wearing clothing woven of two materials, wearing gold, pearls, and expensive clothing, cutting their hair and beards, and getting tattoos. Those commands are deemed no longer relevant, while, inexplicably, other very similar proscriptions are still thought to apply to modern life.

Just last week I was telling a dear friend how I'd rather not exist in a world where toxic thrives. There are so much enmity plaguing this creed, how we hurt others because we think our idea of faith is supreme, how our interpretation of knowledge is above theirs, how every little whisper we turn into a howl. We forget that only He knows. Our existence are but mysteries; who are we to scar, to burn, to leave marks, to solve this enigma for others, to play God. The Friday prayer sermon just this afternoon, spoke to me in such illuminating affirmations. Knowledge, especially in faith, is akin to Light. Light binds, not divides. We seek light not out of fear of the darkness but at a promise to gain clarity. This is our intimate journey, how we move towards that Light is ours to make. Like a blind man, like moths at night, a child yearning, just do not stand in their paths, my friend. Your forehead kisses the same Earth like they do, your knees bend the same curve, and each night, your spine collapses just the same. Do not be the lips that question an arm sleeved with tattoos or hair uncovered by cloth or sins not yours, instead be lips that observes silence, kindness and always, prayers for all. I hope your heart does not make space for words like "Kafir", "infidel", "shirk" and instead be a room with gardens and an ocean of calmness. Even our Beloved won't be a judge for another being; Let God You seek knowledge not to draw boundaries between yourself and others, you seek for this overwhelming gravity of unknowing needs you to always be finding ways to be closer to Him. You seek knowledge to know Him not to make known to others. You have every right to continue seeking, to have your palms heavenwards every night begging to be illuminated. This is your deeper conversation, go on, just you and God.

May God’s people never eat rabbit or pork (Lev. 11:6–7)? May a man never have sex with his wife during her monthly period (Lev. 18:19) or wear clothes woven of two kinds of materials (Lev. 19:19)? Should Christians never wear tattoos (Lev. 19:28)? Should those who blaspheme God’s name be stoned to death (Lev. 24:10–24)? Ought Christians to hate those who hate God (Ps. 139:21–22)? Ought believers to praise God with tambourines, cymbals, and dancing (Ps. 150:4–5)? Should Christians encourage the suffering and poor to drink beer and wine in order to forget their misery (Prov. 31:6–7)? Should parents punish their children with rods in order to save their souls from death (Prov. 23:13–14)? Does much wisdom really bring much sorrow and more knowledge more grief (Eccles. 1:18)? Will becoming highly righteous and wise destroy us (Eccles. 7:16)? Is everything really meaningless (Eccles. 12:8)? May Christians never swear oaths (Matt. 5:33–37)? Should we never call anyone on earth “father” (Matt. 23:9)? Should Christ’s followers wear sandals when they evangelize but bring no food or money or extra clothes (Mark 6:8–9)? Should Christians be exorcising demons, handling snakes, and drinking deadly poison (Mark 16:15–18)? Are people who divorce their spouses and remarry always committing adultery (Luke 16:18)? Ought Christians to share their material goods in common (Acts 2:44–45)? Ought church leaders to always meet in council to issue definitive decisions on matters in dispute (Acts 15:1–29)? Is homosexuality always a sin unworthy of the kingdom of God (1 Cor. 6:9–10)? Should unmarried men not look for wives (1 Cor. 7:27) and married men live as if they had no wives (1 Cor. 7:29)? Is it wrong for men to cover their heads (1 Cor. 11:4) or a disgrace of nature for men to wear long hair (1 Cor. 11:14)? Should Christians save and collect money to send to believers in Jerusalem (1 Cor. 16:1–4)? Should Christians definitely sing psalms in church (Col. 3:16)? Must Christians always lead quiet lives in which they work with their hands (1 Thess. 4:11)? If a person will not work, should they not be allowed to eat (2 Thess. 3:10)? Ought all Christian slaves always simply submit to their masters (reminder: slavery still exists today) (1 Pet. 2:18–21)? Must Christian women not wear braided hair, gold jewelry, and fine clothes (1 Tim. 2:9; 1 Pet. 3:3)? Ought all Christian men to lift up their hands when they pray (1 Tim. 2:8)? Should churches not provide material help to widows who are younger than sixty years old (1 Tim. 5:9)? Will every believer who lives a godly life in Christ be persecuted (2 Tim. 3:12)? Should the church anoint the sick with oil for their healing (James 5:14–15)? The list of such questions could be extended.

March 11 Radiance Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.—Psalm 34:5 Many of us have walked down paths of shame, scattered with bumpy places, broken roads, and dead ends. We have experienced the pain that comes from shattered dreams, relationships destroyed, and wrong choices. We carry the consequences that come from not choosing God’s best and the thoughts of never being good enough. However, as followers of Jesus Christ we are able to find relief from the darkness. We are able to take off the shame and wear his light. Complete freedom comes from Christ and Christ alone. There was a time in my life when I wore the shame tattooed on my forehead for all to see. I walked into the church convinced that everyone knew my sins and no one would want to be a friend because of them. The fear that came with the shame tormented me day and night. I did not understand how God could truly forgive me for all my sins and then release me from them. By God’s design, I had friends who understood what I was going through. They gave me permission to release my shame. As I began to walk closer to Christ, I realized that God would cover the hurt and humiliation. We all recognize when someone’s life is truly a reflection of Christ. They are radiant and ever reflecting His glory. What are you carrying in your trunk of shame today? You may have experienced divorce, loss of a loved one, a relationship forever lost, or abuse. You may be carrying the results of a sin holding you captive. You may be suffering from an addiction to drugs, alcohol or to a relationship. Whatever it is, know that you do not have to wear the shame on your face any longer. Look to Christ. Walk towards Him with an open heart and allow His radiance to shine on you.

What can I get for you, Princess?” a low, deep voice rumbled. Maddie’s head shot up and a man blinked into focus. Her mouth dropped open. In front of her stood the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Was she hallucinating? Was he a mirage? She blinked again. Nope. Still there. Unusual amber eyes, glimmering with amusement, stared at her from among strong, chiseled features. She swallowed. Teeth snapping together, she tried to speak. She managed a little squeak before words failed her. A hot flush spread over her chest. Men like this should be illegal. Unable to resist the temptation pulling her gaze lower, she let it fall. Just when she’d thought nothing could rival that face. Shoulders, a mile wide, stretched the gray T-shirt clinging to his broad chest. The muscles in his arms flexed as he rested his hands on the counter. A tribal tattoo in black ink rippled across his left bicep. Oh, she liked those. Her fingers twitched with the urge to trace the intricate scroll as moisture slid over her tongue. For the love of God, she was salivating. Stop staring. She shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now. Not after today. It was so, so wrong. But she couldn’t look away. Stop. She tried again, but it was impossible. He was a work of art. “You okay there?” The smile curving his full mouth was pure sin. That low, rumbling voice snapped her out of her stupor, and she squared her shoulders. “Yes, thank you.” His gaze did some roaming of its own and stopped at her dress. One golden brow rose. Before he could ask any questions, she said, “I’ll have three shots of whiskey and a glass of water.” His lips quirked. “Three?” “Yes, please.” With a sharp nod, she ran a finger along the dull, black surface of the bar. “You can line them up right here.” When he continued to stare at her as if she might be an escaped mental patient, she reached into her small bag and pulled out her only cash. She waved the fifty in front of his face. “I assume this will cover it.” “If I give you the shots, are you going to get sick all over that pretty dress?” He leaned over the counter, and his scent wafted in her direction. She sucked in a breath. He smelled good, like spice, soap, and danger. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? She was so going to hell. She pushed the money toward him. “I’ll be fine. I’m Irish. We can handle our liquor.” “All right, then.” The bartender chuckled, and Maddie’s stomach did a strange little dip. He

Su actitud no invitaba ni a la confianza ni a la amistad, así que rápidamente se convirtió en un bicho raro que rondaba como un gato sin dueño por los pasillos...

Jesus was a hero, not a loser, “an Ultimate Fighter warrior king with a tattoo down his leg who rides into battle against Satan, sin, and death on a trusty horse,” just like in the Westerns.11

There were no longer to be holy women for the priests, for the ancient laws of Jerusalem had filtered into Egypt. My mother and the other women I had always known as aunts were now called prostitutes and whores, like the women on the streets who had their prices etched into the soles of their sandals so that the men who followed them knew how much they must pay for favors. All at once, what had been honored was reviled. The henna tattoos that had proclaimed them as women of worth now marked them as worthless, and the priests for whom they had sacrificed themselves were the first to accuse them of their sins.

Kahnawake August 1704 Temperature 75 degrees “It’s me! Mercy Carter! Oh, Mr. Williams! Do you have news?” She flung herself on top of him. Oh, his beautiful beard! The beard of a real father, not a pretend Indian father or a French church father. “My brothers,” she begged. “John and Sam and Benny. Have you seen them? Have you heard anything about them? Do you know what happened to the little ones? Daniel? Have you found Daniel?” Mercy had forgotten that she had taken off her tunic to go swimming. That Joseph did not even have on his breechclout. That Mercy wore earrings and Joseph had been tattooed on his upper arms. That they stank of bear. Mr. Williams did not recognize Joseph, and Mercy he knew only by the color of her hair. He was stupefied by the two naked slimy children trying to hug him. In ore horror than even Ruth would have mustered, he whispered, “Your parents would be weeping. What have the savages done to you? You are animals.” Despair and shock mottled Mr. Williams’s face. Mercy stumbled back from him. Her bear grease stained his clothing. “Mercy,” he said, turning away from her, “go cover yourself.” Shame covered her first. Red patches flamed on her cheeks. She ran back to the swimmers, fighting sobs. She was aware of her bare feet, hard as leather from no shoes. Savage feet. Dear Lord in Heaven, thought Mercy, Ruth is right. I have committed terrible sins. My parents would be weeping. She did not look at Snow Walker but yanked on the deerskin tunic. She had tanned the hide herself, and she and Nistenha had painted the rows of turtles around the neckline and Nistenha had tied tiny tinkling French bells into the fringe. But it was still just animal skin. To be wearing hides in front of Mr. Williams was not much better than being naked. Snow Walker burst out of the water. “The white man? Was he cruel? I will call Tannhahorens.” No! Tannhahorens would not let her speak to Mr. Williams. She would never find out about her brothers; never redeem herself in the minister’s eyes. Mercy calmed down with the discipline of living among Indians. Running had shown weakness. “Thank you, Snow Walker,” she said, striving to be gracious, “but he merely wanted me to be clothed like an English girl. There is no need to call Tannhahorens.” She walked back. On the jetty, Joseph stood with his eyes fixed on the river instead of on his minister. He had not fled like Mercy to cover himself. He was standing his ground. “They aren’t savages, Mr. Williams. And they aren’t just Indians. Those children over there are Abenaki, the boy fishing by the rocks is Pennacook, and my own family is Kahnawake Mohawk.” Tears sprang into Mr. Williams’s eyes. “What do you mean--your family?” he said. “Joseph, you do not have a family in this terrible place. You have a master. Do not confuse savages who happen to give you food with family.” Joseph’s face hardened. “They are my family. My father is Great Sky. My mother--” The minister lost his temper. “Your father is Martin Kellogg,” he shouted, “with whom I just dined in Montreal. You refer to some savage as your father? I am ashamed of you.” Under his tan, Joseph paled and his Indian calm left him. He was trembling. “My--my father? Alive? You saw him?” “Your father is a field hand for a French family in Montreal. He works hard, Joseph. He has no choice. But you have choices. Have you chosen to abandon your father?” Joseph swallowed and wet his lips. “No.” He could barely get the syllable out. Don’t cry, prayed Mercy. Be an eagle. She fixed her eyes upon him, giving him all her strength, but Mr. Williams continued to destroy whatever strength the thirteen-year-old possessed. “Your father prays for the day you and he will be ransomed, Joseph. All he thinks of is the moment he can gather his beloved family back under his own roof. Is that not also your prayer, Joseph?

Rebellious"™ You're a barefoot odyssey, perched on a granite counter. Perched on edgeless intensity and arched reasoning. Why do I succumb to valiant persuasions? Just shatter me with your mammoth reality, break me into shards you think will clatter. But, I'm not made of material gravity I'm a symphony of notes looking to burst free! Call me lyrical, call it mercy, call this poetic justice and end my dispassionate existence so criminal. Bang your gavel against my criminalistic loins, I'm guilty of animalistic tendencies and tamed to humanoid inadequacies. I can shatter you in all aspects, and put you back in form in all retrospectives. I do not care to mold you into material to use as an art plateau. My hilly curves canvas's your mighty sword, burst free! Sing to me! Write me your lies. I beckon to endure your truths passionately, injustice webbed upon us is it poetic? Or law abiding? Where will it begin? Where will it end? Time has frozen around me, and all I can think of is this consumption of you. Wholely intoxicating, and wholely seductive. And I can't decide; When your limbs are apart and pinned displayed like a canvas to be ravaged, will you be entirely vulnerable to my demonstrations? Or will you swallow me whole? Swallow you, wallow in you... I'm invaded by your touch. Caught up! Caught up! Caught up! So caught up to us. I say; just lay down my body, tie up my mind, spank my assets, kisses so low and divine. This hasn't yet fully begun, and for sure won't end soon. So meet in our place of desire this noon, when footsteps cross the moon. Darkness descends during daylight when I draw the curtains tight, shutting out the world that claims our time. Now you're mine, you can't escape me, you can't escape this! I won't let you! Now you're a convoluted odyssey subdued by ministration firm, tender, meticulous, smitten, sensitized and shackled. You're a richly tainted taste of sin. A resolute candle of insatiable inspiration. Whose wick lit quick, whose burn smoulders on. Lights out, darkness nears and you burn within me. If I'm a sin, get on bended knees. Prey on me, and you're forgiven. To hell with Mary I want to cum quick see? Rebel no more, we've found retribution! Call it retribution, call it mercy, call this poetic justice, call this confession. I want the marks of your claws to escort me out the door. I want the ruthless indulgence of rebellion tattooed across your psyche! Exhale my name, and blow the flame out! I'll lay and lay som more, till the next time my rebellious lover comes through the door...

There is no room for rosy eyed acceptance of the cultural decay around us. Highly suspect will be any Christian literary and cultural critic who makes too much room for Lady Gaga, Harry Potter, Hester Prynne, Huckleberry Finn, James Bond, Katniss Everdeen, Joe Brooks, Leroy Van Dyke, and Star Trek: Into Darkness. Those who enthusiastically embrace these cultural icons appear to be happy with the macro-cultural trends of the Christian apostate world. That being the case, what does this say about their faith, their worldview, and their own cultural trajectories? Could it be that they have embraced the tattooed Jesus---the false Christs of culture? Indeed, many have been wooed by a false prophet, a false priest, a false redeemer, and a false king. They have been rescued from the wrong sins and have taken on the wrong view of reality, truth, and. ethics. They have embraced the wrong religion, and they have joined the apostasy.

Maddox leaned forward, pressing a hot kiss to the tattoo. “You are truly your father’s daughter, Snow White, and a true queen if there ever was one. And if this is what it takes to prove my love and loyalty to you, then I’ll do it.

Grace’s gaze skimmed over her, taking in the various marks of possession that decorated her flesh. “Well, short of having Property of Trey Coleman tattooed on your forehead, he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he considers you his, could he?” Very true. In addition to those marks that Trey had left while they consummated the claiming, there were those that he had made during the second, third, and fourth rounds that followed through the night. There was a bite at the hollow of her throat, another on her inner wrist, a third one on the swell of her breast, and also claw marks on both upper arms—and those were only the ones that weren’t hidden beneath her black T-shirt, navy jeans, and black leather knee-high boots.

Life was a card game. You couldn’t stack the deck; only make the most of your hand.

Come on, Giovanni,” Amo drawled, coming down the steps. “Last time you had to do practice fights, you almost bawled because someone twisted your fucking wrist. Marcella is tough as nails. If our father expected her to suffer pain for the cause, she’d do it again and she wouldn’t break, because she’s a Vitiello. And taking a tattoo doesn’t make you more loyal. Marcella lives and breathes for our family, and our family is the Famiglia.

If you look at it from a psychoanalytic point of view, a tattoo is a form of perpetual suicide. It’s as if the person has some subconscious awareness of having sinned, and their way of atoning for a guilty conscience is to inflict pain on their own body. Not just criminals, but martyrs and celibates too; what they all have in common is deep feelings of guilt. So the collector’s request to remove their skin after death and preserve it for posterity is actually the fulfillment of their deepest desires.

I wanted to do this for him.” She stroked the painted tattoos on her arm affectionately. “His scars and ink are a sign of survival, a sign that he fought to be part of our lives. Whether he’s in this room or not, this night is only possible because of his fight to get us here.

The slightest brushing of my hand against my penis was not only a religious sin, but would lead to blindness and pimples, kidney disease, bed-wetting, stooped shoulders, insomnia, weight loss, fatigue, stomach trouble, impotence, genital cancer, and ulcers.” In fact, he so deeply internalized his aunts’ great fear of sexual “filth” that the unintentional discovery that his foreskin could retract (and the sudden sight of his filth-encrusted glans) shocked him so deeply that he passed out cold.

It disgusted Joshua. Not the plague so much as the spiritual and moral corruption that it pointed toward. These Canaanite gods of depravity inspired the debasement of every aspect of Yahweh’s image in man. They bred sexual perversions that violated all sacred separations: Fornication, Incest, adultery, homosexuality, bestiality; they provoked fetishes with excrement like vomit and fecal matter; and they defaced the body with occultic tattoos and mutilations. And they mocked the atonement of redemption with their human sacrifices. Israel had become a festering cesspool of evil. The only thing that made Joshua feel any better was knowing that he was to be the instrument for Yahweh’s cleansing. Sin was a cancerous tumor. It had to be gouged out, not merely from those who hated Yahweh, but also from Yahweh’s own people.

I want to make something of myself. And this tattooed package of sin standing before me is one distraction I cannot afford, no matter how how tempting he might be.

Pray in church and sin at home.

The scars of a survivor are art etched in the skin: a warrior’s tattoo, a triumph.

She'd looked around at us, confused for a moment. Then she'd taken all the information we'd tossed at her while she lounged in bed, her hand pressing absentmindedly at her tattooed spot, the flesh healed back over.