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~Philippians 1:21~
He fought for his life on the blood-soaked sand
As the roar of the crowd beat his ears.
Sweat mixed with blood slicked his hands on the sword;
He could feel that the end was near.
"I'm not ready to die!" came his frantic thought.
"I've barely begun to live."
He slipped, and he fell; his sword flew from his hand.
He had nothing left to give.
His opponent stood over him, sword in his hand.
He felt death's cold breath on his back.
In horror, he heard the death chant begin;
The crowd's thirst for blood had no lack.
The sword raised on high for the killing blow;
He panicked and cried out a prayer.
The glittering blade fell from the sky,
Splitting the dusty air.
*Angels, fly swiftly to carry him home*
*Into his Father's arms*
*Take him away from his pain and his fear*
*Safely away from all harm*
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