Heimdall is the watchman of the gods. . . . So acute is his ear that no sound escapes him, for he can even hear the grass grow and the wool on a sheep's back.
“Night, son,” my dad says, and he gives my chicken-bone shoulder a dadly squeeze. He's pretty cool, my dad!
I eventually got to a smelly bus shelter and perched cautiously on the bench inside.
God purposed from eternity that those whom he foreapproved should be conformed to the image of his Son.
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