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Poetry

John 8: 1-11

Like a mat they beat her out, dragged her sorry ass to the court and called for Jesus. Jesus, Jesus. He washed his hands, slipped his feet into his sandals and went out. He watched her, folded, the red dirt combing the sides of her head, blood running into the streets. Angry men clanging, He knelt beside her, his finger dragging in the soil. Her eyes opened – Then, she saw the marble throne of God, the choir of angels…
Annalise Kort Radcliffe
February 29, 2016