Word: unto
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...angels who wear white robes with white wings. They too have bond hair and blue eyes. I can remember very vividly how my mother used to tell me all about the hangups of life. She would sit me down sometimes and explain from the scripture, "Christ had hair like unto that of sheep's wool and as white as snow," she would say. "The hair of all Black people turns white at an old age (what we call gray hair)." She would go on to say that only the hair of Blacks was knotty and kinky like sheep's wool...
...disagree completely with your article on The Gun [June 21], but I will defend unto death your right to say it with a rock, poker or some other hard object. FRED L. NORMANDIN JR. Forest Grove...
...tree written in the tea leaves I see the words: JESUS SAVES. So, appropriately, I pray to be saved, to be delivered from the tedium of the lecture halls, to be thrown out into the real world where real things happen to fleshandblood people. But soft, a voice harkens unto me: SON, FORGET IT. "It ain't so great to be on the outside," the logic flows, "stay awhile and be protected by mother Harvard." And so I remain ambivalent, undecided, shuttling in that twilight betwixt the real and the unreal...
THERE is no music like that music, no drama like the drama of the saints rejoicing, the sinners moaning, the tambourines racing, and all those voices coming together and crying holy unto the Lord. I have never seen anything to equal the fire and excitement that sometimes, without warning, fill a church, causing the church, as Leadbelly and so many others have testified, to "rock." Nothing that has happened to me since equals the power and the glory that I sometimes felt when . . . the church and I were one. Their pain and their joy were mine, and mine were theirs...
...tree written in the tea leaves I see the words: JESUS SAVES. So, appropriately, I pray to be saved, to be delivered from the tedium of the lecture halls, to be thrown out into the real world where real things happens to fleshandblood people. But soft, a voice harkens unto me: SON, FORGET IT. "It ain't so great to be on the outside," the logic flows, "stay awhile and be protected by mother Harvard." And so I remain ambivalent, undecided, shuttling in that twilight betwixt the real and the unreal...