Oh the Deacon was roaring that Sunday.
He paced and frothed, balled his fists, hollered like a hog in a gate.
But he wasn’t yet started, nosir.
He stepped down from the pulpit and called ol’ Satan himself to come up from the pit-fires and fight it out with him right there, told him to bring all the demons he chose to help him.
By then the whole front row was on their knees, eyes closed, some of them speaking in the tongues like they do.
It was all I could to get them to wait for the altar call.
So–were you the deacon or the Devil? I really wasn’t sure what exactly was happening here 🙂