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Unformatted text preview: my head, pitching me this way and that way so that I scarce felt the fire when it touched me . . . "Dear God, into Thy hands, Thy servant Ashlar can do no more. Dear God. Infant Jesus, take me. Blessed Mother, take me. Francis, come to help me up. Holy Mary, Mother of God, now and at the hour . . . into Thy hands!" And then . . . And then. There was no God. There was no Baby Jesus in my arms. There was no Blessed Mother, "now and at the hour of our death." There was no Light. There was no judgment. There was no heaven. There was no hell. There was darkness. And then came Suzanne. Suzanne calling in the night. Ashlar, St. Ashlar. A bright fleshly being, scarcely visible in the circle! And look at it, the ring of stones, how round! Hear her voice! And down the long long years the call came, feeble and tiny, like the faintest spark, and then louder and clearer, and I came together to hear it: "Come now, my Lasher, hear my voice." "Who am I, child?" Was this my voice speaking? Was this my own true...
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- Spring '10