wtf ownage
Pg. 1256. Line 797
“I visit the orchards of God and look at the spheric product,
And look at the quintillions ripened, and look at the quintillions green.”
To call upon the inner most soul and find there the thing that at once startles and at length invokes curious thought. To run through whole, plenty orchards of base human element, such unsurpassed richness in spiritual beauty and branded corpses or unquenched souls. A yearning here and an outcry there, a fat and goodly pastor’s preaching and weeping mother’s long lost son. A long lost son and an ever burning sun to which they with fearful hearts do crawl.
For, perchance, God visits his own orchards and the fruit of his labor and celestial loins lies hanging here, wavering in the wind of his own deep breath. And this fruitful earth, then, full of its own lush juice and heavily weighted with the burden of savory sin sits distanced from the hand of its tiller. What brilliantly warm love, then, does the eastern, broad and bursting side of this fruit that is the earth surely feel if the sun do rise proper that day? And if this same sun that shines from the good Lord’s very brow does come to rest in the far off glorious west, what neglect must the east feel?
What if, by chance, the wind howls strong and the fruit finds itself at the feet of thy maker, bruised and battered? Should the spiritual fate of millions be so influenced by the changing of the wind and the turning of the season? For if the sun comes to a halt in the east, should the west fall to rot and endless toil, never to experience the moist pallet of the tiller which nurtured it so? Quintillions green for the sake of those ripened, and what does it matter if the burning sun shines from within?
“I visit the orchards of God and look at the spheric product,
And look at the quintillions ripened, and look at the quintillions green.”
To call upon the inner most soul and find there the thing that at once startles and at length invokes curious thought. To run through whole, plenty orchards of base human element, such unsurpassed richness in spiritual beauty and branded corpses or unquenched souls. A yearning here and an outcry there, a fat and goodly pastor’s preaching and weeping mother’s long lost son. A long lost son and an ever burning sun to which they with fearful hearts do crawl.
For, perchance, God visits his own orchards and the fruit of his labor and celestial loins lies hanging here, wavering in the wind of his own deep breath. And this fruitful earth, then, full of its own lush juice and heavily weighted with the burden of savory sin sits distanced from the hand of its tiller. What brilliantly warm love, then, does the eastern, broad and bursting side of this fruit that is the earth surely feel if the sun do rise proper that day? And if this same sun that shines from the good Lord’s very brow does come to rest in the far off glorious west, what neglect must the east feel?
What if, by chance, the wind howls strong and the fruit finds itself at the feet of thy maker, bruised and battered? Should the spiritual fate of millions be so influenced by the changing of the wind and the turning of the season? For if the sun comes to a halt in the east, should the west fall to rot and endless toil, never to experience the moist pallet of the tiller which nurtured it so? Quintillions green for the sake of those ripened, and what does it matter if the burning sun shines from within?