Little Sister picked up the double edged sword again. It had been standing in the corner as she wiped the eye of her beloved father and grandfather there in the bed–who are the Bright Fame of Christianity Past.
She has wept sorely for them; she has appreciated their love; yet, oh yet, this deed must be done for the sake of us all. This is what Little Sister knew deeply without really knowing for if she had understood as much as she pondered, well, she would have fled already any number of times. There is that place of Divine Blindness, thank You Father.
In that moment, she took ahold of the sword, walked soberly over to the right side of the hospital bed, and quickly stabbed her brother and his friend in the stomach. They collapsed there, and their crimson blood spilled softly on the sterile white floor.
Little Sister walked to the far right corner, out of the way of them all, and collapsed upon the floor as the sword came clamoring down beside her. She was spent in her prayers. But there was no blood though the tears she cried at the very end were running in streams down her cheeks.
But you see, there should have been blood. “Love grown cold” stabbed Little Sister in the heart unseen at the same time she did her despicable deed of calling the prophesy of those who love Jesus back upon them in testimony and prayer. There was no blood in her dead corpse that day because her heart had been bled dry by all the piercings of degradation, rejection, and ignorance across 144 allegorical years that cold love inflicted upon her tender feelings and soul.