My death was still in the room. It was wet and evil and soiled the bandages pulled around me. There was a voice. I woke up because it terrified me. Jesus was a friend but the voice He used to wake me up scared me. It would have sounded angry if it wasn’t also glory. It was a voice that made Death and me tremble. He told me to come out. I feared the voice more than death. It claimed more than death could, its purposes more inscrutable. It was a voice that held, forevermore, what was next. And because the voice was not a Stranger’s, it terrified me more. It is a thing of terror to call the
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