A friend of mine – she isn’t here tonight, she wrote me a very sweet letter this past week. She said, “I had either a dream or a vision. It was very vivid. I saw a woman who had twelve daughters. In the vision, or dream, I knew the names of each. Eleven of them were born maimed: a foot missing, an arm missing – something missing, but one was born perfect, and she was a virgin who gave birth to a son. Her name was Glory. But all the time I was thinking of Mary” – for she was raised a Catholic and raised in the tradition, she was thinking of Mary, but her name was Glory – which is God Himself, as we told you last Monday, “I will make my glory to pass before you, and when I pass by” – therefore “my Glory” and “I” are synonymous. So, her name was Glory, and she was perfect. “And everyone wanted to know who was the father of her son. And all the townspeople tried.” She said, “I knew it, and she – Glory, she knew it. But we wouldn’t tell, because they didn’t ask us. And then someone said, ‘David is the father of the child.’ Then someone came forward and struck him on the head and knocked him down, and others came with knives, and he simply cried out because of the blow, and the two knives that they pierced into him.” And then she awoke, and she wondered, “What on earth could this be? Because I can’t conceive in my rational mind that I would ever want to kill David.”657 ¶27