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By Sam Harris

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Sample text

Only He owns my whereabouts, and I am hopelessly lost in maples sugared and jasper scattered, clay bluffs rolling seamlessly for miles yonder along Route 22. 31 CHAPTER TEN The deepest of topaz has been carved around my footprints, and it seems well fitting that this lonely visitor has disappeared into divine presence, my silhouette treading through the puzzle of unheard echoes, wishing for the rivers of home seducing me with security. Instead it is dry as I gaze below the wild sky into the purpled herringbone vale and understand why God dangles us above this opening dusty vault—to bring us closer, higher to ourselves—to lose all belongings to these foothills of heaven.

45 FOURTEEN But last night, my last night here in an alive alluring East Coast city, I turned on its company, an artificial accessory I have not heard in these months without communications. It amazes me how one never misses what it hated hearing, the grim and the heartbreak that seem to replicate the tragedies I pray never to witness or endure again. Suffering still stalwarts all joy, visually reducing my soul to the shame of nothing prime—only primal—relaying the realization that this plastic bubble I balance may be worn as its wand, but not completely dissolved like so many images in its dim rainbow glaze.

For when we find our love in the manger, we truly begin to love the world. When we see our King in the sky, we begin to watch our way. When we know our promise born, only then do we possess trust. What was promised was delivered far above what all dare ask or imagine. Yet, of all the presents I stare for the stones and the nails, and wonder: Where is Immanuel? And who stole His honor?

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