Word: confessed
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...price of any of these sins is death, and everyone stands guilty before God, myself included. But because of God's grace in sacrificing His only son, Jesus Christ, we can be given eternal life despite our faults. In order to receive God's grace, a person must confess and repent of the sin in his or her life, and trust in the saving power and immense love of Jesus Christ. 1 John 1:8-9 states, "If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins...
Although I myself attended the awards with the ostensible objective of augmenting my knowledge of the Boston music underground, I must confess I was enticed, as any mortal must be, by the idea of swooning at the sight of Boston's hometown celebs. Flipping through the awards booklet, I began to get excited as I glimpsed a teaser promo on the inside cover, showing the smug faces of LFO along with the boast of the "Power of 3Times 5," LFO's label's commendation of the boys' five nominations, including...
...until he will invariably refuse to commit the crime and then die, in agony, at the hands of his ancestors. Sir Rutheven has faked his own death and has disguised himself as the sweet, disarming young farmer Robin Oakapple, who has such low self-esteem that he cannot confess his love to Rose without the help of his long-lost foster brother, the entertaining sailor Richard Dauntless (Francis Crick '03). Angle is ideally cast as the naive, helpless Robin, who becomes even more inept at doing his daily evil deed once his true identity is revealed, although he is creative...
...natural historian at heart, however, I confess my strong preference for the second path of exploration: a search for possible natural occurrences elsewhere. This Columbian path has served us so well before, and nature's products do tend to outshine our own poor workmanship by manifesting things undreamed of in all our philosophy. So let us seek nature's own replicate--on Mars or a few other potential places in our solar system, if we really luck out (and are willing to content ourselves with simple things at bacterial grade and unfit for mutual conversation); or elsewhere, despite daunting distances...
Perhaps my metaphor is wrong. Internet chess is less like a San Francisco bathhouse than the terminal stages of alcoholism. Playing chess first thing Sunday morning, which I confess I did last week, is about as close as you can get to drinking aftershave...