When an innocent expectation is murdered on the grassy knoll of one's backyard, one ought to re-enter ones home, look the blood on one's hands square in its so-called face, and ask oneself: Who is it that ought to have died? Because with each passing hour, I've become more convinced that it is my self that should have been there facing the sharp tip of the plunging sword. Martyrdom is easy. Dying to self is hard. And the Word says "If anyone were to come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me".
