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Calvary Hill Review How strange it must have been to be thought a savior, or not. Maybe just a man on a cross with a grin. Because it figures, really, Murphy's Law not Yahweh's. And I can see all the players, all the paupers. Faces and palms undulating, and way up here above the morning and the stench, the view is spectacular. I give it five stars, and if I could, I would applaud. And some two-thousand years later when I was twelve, racked by winter morning pink burning earlobes and the salty taste on tongue as snot rolled over numbed lips. No jacket that year, just two sweaters and a flannel underneath with a collar poking out holding a black clip-on bow tie. With washed once weekly jeans and thin fake leather loafers that got me to church every Sunday by myself. And looking back, I had to admit, they were My footprints in the snow.
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