He is always a waif.
His tongue is too slow to relate the great things he has witnessed,
in total darkness.
The knife-edge in his voice reflects the light of the sun upon his eyes glaring conviction.
He leans on his faith like a crutch that sets too high in the shoulder. He raves that the terrible truth is worse than all of our fears and better than the impossible.
He does not desire these girls; he has seen the Nephilim
woman bathing in the ocean.
I want to cut out his eyes because I know what this pathetic prophet fears despite his faith is