My zen teacher and very dear friend, Jordan Thorn, died on Sunday. He was one of the kindest and most generous people I have ever met. And that laugh of his!!! I deeply treasure our 7 years together — so many precious memories and teachings that will continue to guide me and many other folks forever. So much love and gratitude. Clare kept me informed about Jordan for years, sending little messages at times. Creative Commons copyright - the one that lets anyone use anything as long as it's not for profit, and in that case just ask.
Sent by Clare Hollander. It ought, moreover, to be observed, that in the ancient Church it was never known what had become of that crown. Hence it is easy to conclude, that the first twig of that now shown grew many years after our Saviour's death. Catholic Encyclopedia. New York: Robert Appleton. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. For other uses, see Crown of Thorns disambiguation. Early life. In rest of the NT. Road to Damascus John's vision.
Holy Week. Session of Christ Salvation Jewish eschatology Christian eschatology. Visions of Jesus. Vision theory Visions Religious experience. Empty tomb fringe theories.ustanovka-kondicionera-deshevo.ru/libraries/2020-03-16/2670.php
Death vigil :: the beast, the thorn, and the reaper | Tapas
Stolen body Swoon Lost body Twin. Charles Sophia Institute Press. Retrieved 19 April London: Palestine Pilgrims' Text Society. Retrieved 16 April Kleinhenz, Christopher ed. Medieval Italy: An Encyclopedia. Abingdon, England: Routledge.
Retrieved Naturhistoriska riksmuseet, Sweden. Retrieved 20 July CBS News. The Catholic Encyclopedia. New York: Appleton. Het Nieuwsblad in Dutch. Retrieved 4 February The first thing to be lost is the soup, then there are no more potatoes either, and finally all they still get is a kind of bean tea, a pale liquid with a few lone beans floating in it.
These are also the days that claim the lives of a few more elderly people; the worsening rations virtually knocked them down, and one prisoner dies of dysentery which also suddenly breaks out.
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By now it has been some fourteen days that they have spent here; in the beginning it was bearable, but nobody will last much longer under these conditions. Again the gnawing hunger makes its appearance, as does the everlasting thirst - no food is supplied to the prison, and the water mains are still broken Just as they are about to lose the last of their hope, an incredible bombardment begins. For two days thunder crashes all around them, as though the earth were bursting and being reborn. Almost all the window panes explode, and the thick walls vibrate more and more severely.
Occasionally one of the grenades also hits the prison, but once again the cellblock in which all the ethnic Germans are imprisoned is spared - not one of the thousands of detonations does any serious damage here. Eventually everyone's eardrums ring to the point that they can no longer hear a word anyone says; some show signs of losing their minds again, and one of them begins to preach: "I am the Lord thy God, I shall deliver thee, so it is written An agony of tension grips them all - what will the next hour bring?
But for several hours more, nothing at all happens; then, late in the evening, their cell door is suddenly flung open, and a Colonel stands at the threshold, white-faced. Raapke soon calls for common sense and urges the over-eager ones to reconsider and stay until morning.
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So they spend one more night in their cells and are properly discharged in the morning. Meanwhile, Reverend Dietrich reports to the army headquarters and returns around noon with a Major who is to guide the deportees through the Polish front line. And so they finally march out through the devastated city of Warsaw. All the streets are full of piles of rubble, and some houses look as though they had been blasted from the inside, with only the outside walls left standing.
Occasionally they see half-eaten horse cadavers, torn-down streetcar cables above them, and in the old battery positions lie heaps of corpses. Around four o'clock in the afternoon they near the front line at Mokotow; dozens of burned-out tanks lie scattered throughout the surrounding area, and between them, entire rows of battery teams. In the middle of the battlefield they are instructed to wait, while Reverend Dietrich and the Major go on ahead to the German front line.
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An hour passes - three hours pass - darkness falls. The deportees crowd together like a herd of sheep, the women in the center. The night grows freezing cold for them in their thin shirtsleeves. The moon rises in silent brightness, and in its light they can see hundreds of returning Polish refugees who were evidently turned back at the front.
Since they are huddled on top of a hill, they can see far across the Polish countryside: its sad beauty extends sweepingly to the horizon, broken only occasionally by a pale white birch. In the distance, fog descends quietly over a village, its wretched wooden huts sit on the ground as though cowering timidly in the lap of Mother Earth - but one and the same night sky arches over the watchers as over this village, home to the same yellow moon on its silent passage, and the same stars twinkle on its blackness like silver tears.
Finally, around midnight, the minister returns, everything has been arranged, and now they can start on their final journey. With every hundred meters they put behind them, the battlefield becomes more gruesome. Dozens of white horse cadavers lie everywhere, toppled cannons with gaping muzzles between them, and on top of some of these, overturned gun carriers whose loads of grenades are spilled all around.
Stubby chimney remnants are all that remains of the houses that once stood here. Countless burned trucks fill their yards, and the entire area is permeated by such a ghastly smell of decomposition that many women moan softly at the sight of this dreadful scene of destruction. But this sight not only fills them with dismay, it also announces to them the overwhelming victory, the devastating German victory over Poland to an extent which they had not dared hope for in their wildest dreams.
Finally, as they approach a village, the vanguard sees a troop of soldiers - aren't those German soldiers? And suddenly all sense of marching order is forgotten, the rows spontaneously disband, the entire column breaks into a run And then the first of them stand before the soldiers, look at them with staring eyes: the gray uniforms, the brown leathers, the old steel helmets! And a few young girls When Reverend Dietrich took the first head count, he found that one out of every five prisoners in his column had lost their lives on these Polish roads.
In and of itself that was not a huge number, but hadn't there been countless other such deportation columns, being similarly herded through the country?
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And didn't each and every one of them lose hundreds of members, after thousands had already been killed in the cities before? Hadn't the Poles even shot thousands of German soldiers in their army, even though they had always loyally done their duty? Weren't farmers killed behind their plows, mothers while nursing their infants, even children at play? The fate of a few was discovered.