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for Charles Wesley 
 The pack came over the hill from Gold Creek, beyond where they
normally run, and into high pasture where the sheep browse in summer.
 They took down twelve ewes in a hundred yards, chewing their hocks
until they dropped and ripping open their sides.
By the time I got to them, their bodies were buzzing with insects in the
hot sun.
Blow ye the gospel trumpet, blow,
render burnt offerings and eat off the fat of the land;
Blow ye the gospel trumpet, blow,
amongst the angels and the devils who dance with them;
Blow ye the gospel trumpet, blow,
sheep silhouetted against the moon and the crisp night air. 
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Author:Tobias, Ronald B.
Publication:The Carolina Quarterly
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2016
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