American Standard Version.
These men are those who are hidden reefs in your love feasts.
When they feast with you without fear, caring for themselves.
Now, I'm sorry, the King James.
It's a lot better.
These are spots in your feast of charity when they feast with you,
feeding themselves without fear.
Right?
Clouds they are without water, carried about of winds.
Trees whose fruit withers without fruit, twice dead,
plucked up by the roots, raging waves of the sea, foaming out their own shame,
wandering stars to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness forever.
That's some powerful poetry, amen?
Well, it doesn't rhyme.
Okay.
Well, let's listen to it in the New American Standard.
These men are the...
Hold on, I got to get my Dr. Sperger glasses for this.
Here.
Let's get it from, you know, the modern day scholars.
New American Standard is much more accurate.
These men are those who are hidden reefs in your love feasts.
What is this like?
Are we swimming in the ocean?
These men are those who are hidden reefs in your love feasts,
when they feast with you without fear,
caring for themselves.
Clouds without water, carried along by winds.
Autumn trees without fruit.
You know what I'm talking about out there.
Doubly dead.
Doubly dead, uprooted.
Without fruit, twice dead, plucked up by the roots.
Autumn trees without fruit.
Doubly dead, uprooted.
Oh yeah, man, the New American Standard rules.
Wild waves of the sea, casting up their own shame like foam.
Wandering...
Folks, I didn't even plan that.
You could open this book anywhere and it sounds like that.