I t is sharpened that it may make a slaughter, polished that it may flash and glitter like lightning! Shall we then rejoice and make mirth ? But the rod or scepter of My son rejects and views with contempt every tree!
So as to slaughter a slaughter it is sharpened. So as to have brightness it is polished, Desire hath rejoiced the sceptre of my son, It is despising every tree.
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