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I still feel the open wound created by the bullet of an imagined gun.  He still feels the nails and whips. The tree stained with blood. He still feels the sorrow, torture, and pain His blood for my sin, His death for my life, His goal and my part. He lives I serve, He loves I serve, He cares I serve. 

My Father, Brother and King I will defend to my death by the imagined bullet.


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