The Voice of God

He spoke not with the voice with which he was born. That was too weak, too feeble for such tasks and had no place in this environment. This was the voice he had cultivated and honed. The voice that silenced a room with the same ease as would death. He had never sought respect, what good is respect? Men and women stray away from it with such fickleness. No, fear was best, a very demanding mistress to the whims of whom everyone complied. As the first syllable had left his mouth heads had turned, first in casual curiosity but now fixed with rapt attention.

He could be the King of the World, the ruler of wills and the determinant of lives and yet he would not know such power. This was beyond mortal, his audience held the belief that his power knew no bounds. Their ignorance frothing to the top crying out shamelessly for exploitation. He had not the burdens of godmen who must prove their prowess nor the demands of a professional speaker who must keep his listeners entertained. A simple modulated tone could hit one being in the masses like a sharp whip. Jolting into place that offending mortal, a place which he had the absolute power to decide.

And so with as much bass as you can imagine his sonorous instrument echoed into that chamber filled with such eager souls.

Open your books at page 42


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