Quotes about sell, page 6
Judas Doomed Son Of Perdition?
Man of Sin Son of Perdition
the star that fell from heaven
the man doomed to destruction
warns of antichrist archetypes opposing God
Jesus in John 17: 12 in reference to Judas Iscariot
said of all his disciples none has been lost except
the 'son of perdition'
'the one doomed to destruction'
Judas' sealed character destiny...
It was Jesus who said
'Have I not chosen you, the Twelve?
Yet one of you is a devil! ' John 6: 70.
Judas is a son of perdition
Judas had the character of a destroyer
Judas was a traitor and a murderer...
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Not Worth the toil!
NOT all the sum of earthly happiness
Is worth the bowed head of a moment's pain,
And if I sell for wine my dervish dress,
Worth more than what I sell is what I gain!
Land where my Lady dwells, thou holdest me
Enchained; else Fars were but a barren soil,
Not worth the journey over land and sea,
Not worth the toil!
Down in the quarter where they sell red wine,
My holy carpet scarce would fetch a cup
How brave a pledge of piety is mine,
Which is not worth a goblet foaming up!
Mine enemy heaped scorn on me and said
'Forth from the tavern gate!' Why am I thrust
From off the threshold? is my fallen head
Not worth the dust?
Wash white that travel-stained sad robe of thine!
Where word and deed alike one colour bear,
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poem by Shams al-Din Hafiz
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From Rameses To Succoth
Seventy palm trees,
Twelve wells of water;
Of a romantic night with wine at the fire place;
Bread of heaven,
Pots of meat,
Come up to me on this mountain!
From Ur to Rome,
From Rameses to Succoth,
From Accra to Hamburg,
From Nima to Lagos,
From Cape Coast to New York,
From Ghana to South Korea,
I am a stranger in a foreign land.
Fire, wine, husban and wife;
Of red wine at the fire place!
Seventy palm trees,
Twelve wells of water;
To eat for three matters to me.
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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Market Day
There’s a market in our town, two days a week.
It’s nice to have a browse and take a quick peek.
There’s a riot of colours up and down the street,
And mouth-watering smells from all the food to eat.
There’s an explosion of different sights and sounds,
And dozens of people are leisurely milling around.
At the market, there’s always a great atmosphere,
And there’s nothing for sale there which is too dear.
A mobile van serves up spicy German bratwurst,
Plus a variety of different drinks to quench your thirst.
On one stall, they sell leather purses and handbags:
Cheap ones, plus designer ones, for the would-be WAGs.
In his mobile truck, a rotund butcher chops up some meat:
He promises his customers that his prices can’t be beat.
There’s a stall which sells low price pet supplies.
This is always a big attraction for the penny wise.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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It's up to you for M lady Flora
The mist that crept in from the sea.
Advancing inexorably,
enveloped first the sandy beach.
Then well beyond the high tides reach
Invaded streets and avenues
the thoroughfares that people use.
To go about their business.
A wet and cold unpleasantness.
Which nobody had seen before
at least along that friendly shore.
Exuding sheer hostility
as if the demons of the sea.
Deciding that humanity.
had forfeited their right to be.
Had gathered there with one intent
to prove the sea omniscient.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I'll Tell Thee Everything I Can
I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate,
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
'Who are you, aged man?' I said.
'And how is it you live?'
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.
He said, 'I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat;
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,' he said,
'Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread
A trifle, if you please.'
But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
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poem by Lewis Carroll
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The Knight's Song
I'll tell thee everything I can:
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
'Who are you, aged man?' I said.
'And how is it you live?'
And his answer trickled through my head,
Like water through a sieve.
He said, 'I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,' he said,
'Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread --
A trifle, if you please.'
But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
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poem by Lewis Carroll
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Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing
The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.
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poem by Margaret Atwood
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The Aged Aged Man
I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said,
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.
He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread—
A trifle; if you please."
But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
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poem by Lewis Carroll
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The White Knight's Song
'Haddock's Eyes' or 'The Aged Aged Man' or
'Ways and Means' or 'A-Sitting On A Gate'
I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
'Who are you, aged man?' I said.
'And how is it you live?'
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.
He said 'I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat;
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,' he said,
'Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread--
A trifle, if you please.'
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poem by Lewis Carroll
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