Sinai 

    The preacher begins to speak of peace, as the quire grows quiet. The sermon was yearning to learn, the demons were burning in the urns of those earning. 

The spirit however, did not desert the undeserving. Every soul within the temple could feel a tide turning, in a baptism of realism. Manifested true, through a catalogue of material cataclysms. Each eye saw the same Visions of the Schism.
The walls began to burn, unconcerned by who was what, or who wasn’t  with sin. The temple began combusting, like a furnace, yet not even a single Scream scratched the surface; 

The preacher was now looking increasingly nervous. Pushing his faith desperate to see the purpose, of the torture that he had used to torch the tortious…

Wealth had now become worthless; to all the snowy Saints in their burning churches. That now claimed to know of holy verses, yet could not recall their saviours birthplace; 
The quire so inspired that they sang through the fire, until the entire procession sought out a new professions. 
Like the holy smoke that filled their lungs and stained the air. They where there, yet everywhere. A heavy cross to bare, till they were near, their last breath…

A church full of New desciples that wrote divergent bibles, as they stifled, walking through the fiery shadow of death…

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