I want to ply my boat, many times, Across the gulf-after-death, And return to earth's shores from my home in Heaven. I want to load my boat With those waiting, thirsty ones who are left behind, And carry them by the opal pool of iridescent joy Where my Father distributes His all-desire-quenching liquid peace.
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We don't say what we ought to say. We say what we think we ought to say. Then we wonder why nobody understands us. And, because other...
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