Aaron’s sons are dead. Filled with an excess of love and excitement, they approached. Burned. Burned and dead. Dragged away by their cousins. Placed outside of the camp. Separate? Holy? Dragged by their smoldering tunics, outside of the camp.

Incense. Strange incense they brought. For this they died. For an excess of passion.

How like children they were. Filled with the excitement of bringing their mother some flowers. How could they know? How could they understand that picking roses from mommy’s prize bush would lead to punishment?

Unbearable grief. Aaron is silent in his pain. Weeping without tears, crying without sound.

Never again to see his sons. They are dead. Killed by the flame that had brought joy and amazement moments before.

Aaron will mourn. “How can I feast?” he must ask in his heart. “How can I live?”

Defiant, he burns the offering. Self destructive? In his grief, is he seeking another burning? One that will bring brief pain and then an end to pain?

Aaron’s sons are dead. Filled with an excess of love and excitement, they approached.

Burned. Burned and dead. Dragged away by their cousins. Placed outside of the camp. Separate? Holy? Gone.

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