Friday, October 12, 2007

Brokesoul Mountain

And I looked, and behold, a pale horse, & his name that sat on him was death...
--Revelation 6:8

I had a dream last night so clear and vivid that I remembered it in all its details upon awakening.

I was in a room with half a dozen or more cowbyoys, and a mean-looking, lousy crew they were. All around the walls were hung with pistols in holsters, and these holsters hung on belts all stuffed with bullets. The cowboys each took a weapon or weapons from the wall and started for the door.

They went out the door single file, some firing as they went. I couldn't see out, so I have no idea what they were shooting at.

The last cowboy, an old guy, turned back into the room and with an angry look began sweeping weapons off the wall with his hand. Pistolas clattered as they hit the floor, along with large numbers of bullets knocked loose from the belts, and some of these discharged on impact.

The old cowboy was hit with about a dozen of the stray projectiles he'd unloosed. As he lay dying with blood coming out of his head, I could see by his face he didn't give a damn, even for his own life.

And I know for a fact we're in much worse trouble than we think.

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