So there he lay like a grave in king, the face to which every moment of glory referred was still.

The eyes that were present at every birth and looked on with shining devotion were closed.

The hands that would gather the world and hold it like a wounded child were still.

This is no archetype, no belly of the beast, no death under transformation.

This is the original to which all archetypes refer. This is my dream and when it died this is the story it followed

the mystery at the center of reality. The Apostles we know were devastated.

Peter, I think, ran through the country, yelling,

no, no, no, no, louder and louder.

No, no, no, no,

Matthew tried to journal, but the pen shook in his hand and tears blotted the page.

He couldn't stop trembling.

Mary of Nazareth was still as the dead. He couldn't stop trembling.

Mary of Nazareth was still as the dead, with John's arms around her and a sword through her

heart.

In fact, all of them were stooped over an annihilated dream.

The devil we know was otherwise occupied just then, but the governors, Pilate and Caesar,

and Pharaoh and the Sanhedron, rose from their work and looked out the window and wondered at the

vertigo that suddenly shook their souls.

But the angels, we can assume, had other preoccupations.

Welcome back friends to part three of a series on the Paradise King.

You are at the Wild at Heart podcast.

I'm John Eldridge and with me this week again,

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