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See, Lord, here are two swords.
Is that enough?
Is that enough to slice open my brother’s flesh and watch his life slowly ebb?
Is that enough to pierce the heart of my sister with searing pain?
I open my mouth, and the glistening edges make their wounds.
My hand guides with precision to ensure a lasting mark.
I will leave no survivors; I am a master.
Little do I realize I am falling on my own blade.
“That is enough,” you reply.
It is your scarred hand upon my bloodthirsty one that fashions my killing machine into an instrument of growth.
The very blade that spilled the blood of my fellow man now tills the soil to raise new life.
Your own sword divides my flesh and spirit.
That is enough.