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He could believe, almost, that he had awakened late on that great getting-up morning; that all the saved had been transformed in the twinkling of an eye, and had risen to meet Jesus in the clouds, and that he was left, with his sinful body, to be bound in Hell a thousand years.
She knew that Gabriel rejoiced, not that her humility might lead her to grace, but only that some private anguish had brought her low: her song revealed that she was suffering, and this her brother was glad to see.
why do so many spiritual leaders (of any religion in which they hold power) thrive in the suffering of their followers? oh right, because it gives them that much more power.
And he bowed his head yet lower before the altar in weariness and confusion. Oh, that his father would die!—and the road before John be open, as it must be open for others. Yet in the very grave he would hate him; his father would but have changed conditions, he would be John’s father still. The grave was not enough for punishment, for justice, for revenge. Hell, everlasting, unceasing, perpetual, unquenched forever, should be his father’s portion; with John there to watch, to linger, to smile, to laugh aloud, hearing, at last, his father’s cries of torment.
“I been listening many a nighttime long,” said Florence, then, “and He ain’t never spoke to me.” “He ain’t never spoke,” said Gabriel, “because you ain’t never wanted to hear. You just wanted Him to tell you your way was right. And that ain’t no way to wait on God.” “Then tell me,” said Florence, “what He done said to you—that you didn’t want to hear?”