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Connor, Ralph, Pseudonym, 1860-1937

"The Sky Pilot in No Man's Land"

It
was this that delivered him from that nervous self-consciousness, the
preacher's curse, that paralyses the mental activities, chills the
passions, and cloggs the imagination, so that his sermon becomes
a lifeless repetition of words, previously prepared, correct, even
beautiful, it may be in form, logical in argument, sound in philosophy,
but dead, dull and impotent, bereft of the fire that kindles the powers
of the soul, the emotion that urges to action, the imagination that
lures to high endeavour.
"I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye
present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which
is your reasonable service."
The voice, clear, vibrant, melodious, arrested with its first word the
eyes and hearts of his hearers, and so held them to the end. With the
earnest voice there was the fascination of a face alight with a noble
beauty, eyes glowing as with lambent flame.
A second time he read the appealing words, then paused and allowed his
eyes to wander quietly over the congregation.


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