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Currently reading Merlin by Stephen R. Lawhead. I’m not sure why I ever read any of the Arthurian legends. I know how they end. So much tragedy. So much could have been but wasn’t quite. It’s enough to make one despair altogether. But, read them I do. Love them I must.

As I read in the beauty of this unnaturally cool morning, I came across this section that really did strike me as joyful. I wanted to share it with you.

There is a peculiar joy of the flesh that is like no other, a joy that is as much longing as gladness. It is, I think, the yearning of blood and bone for the exultation that the spirit knows when approaching its true habitation. The body knows it is dust and will return to dust in the end, and grieves for itself. The spirit, however, knows itself to be eternal and glories in this knowledge. Both strain after the glory they rightfully possess, or will possess in time.

But unlike the spirit, the flesh’s hope is tenuous. Therefore, in those rare times when it senses the Truth–that it will be made incorruptible, that it will inherit all the spirit owns, that the two shall become one–then, in those rarest of moments, it revels in a joy too sweet for words.

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