Far over the misty mountains old, / through dungeons deep and caverns old, / the pines were roaring on the heights; / the wind was moaning in the night. / The fire was red; it, flaming, spread. / The trees, like torches, blazed with light.
He knew the end was near. He knew the finality of Friday. He read the last chapter before it was written. He heard the final chorus before it was sung. Each step calculated, deliberate, pre-meditated. (Max Lucado)